A Soldier indeed !

“This has made its way to me through Anand Swaroop. It is a poignant reminder of how difficult it is for the armed forces to be involved in kinetic operations in Internal Security Situations.

I am reminded of what one of my COs said ” Every day in some or the other part our land, men and women in the armed forces perform acts of gallantry. Some are recognised, a few are even rewarded.”

Kudos to Col DPK Pillay (a Georgian from 73rd NDA). I am proud that I slow marched through the Quarterdeck at the same time as did this fine soldier.

I thought I must share with you a part of my life – a journey back to the place where I was nearly killed.

Yesterday I was honoured by the village yesterday for protecting their lives when I was losing my own and for making peace with them before passing out .

I also met the militants who shot me – it was a great moment – something that makes this life worth living

Since you are my well wisher i thought you must know this story.

With warm regards

Pillay

you can watch the video here.

Married to a Punjabi

I am quite the Pan-Indian (I know there is no such term, but read on and I’ll explain). I speak no languages other than English and Hindi. The Tamil that I don’t speak comes from my mother, an Iyer. It’s so pitiable that when I used it in Trichy recently, the shopkeeper replied in Hindi. The Malayalam that I didn’t learn from my father has spared me that strong accent.

In my father’s time in the Indian Air Force, official policy required an officer to be fluent in both English and Hindi. (My father’s efforts to learn to speak Hindi have been hilarious, and I’ll reserve posting that for some other time). However, there were a whole lot of Sikhs also at that time. (As a well known saying in the pilot fraternity goes, “Only Surds (Sardars/Sikhs) and birds fly naturally”.) So Punjabi was the un-official second language. To get ahead in life one needed to speak assi-tussi.

I think it important to state at this juncture that my getting married to a Punjabi lass has absolutely nothing to do with getting ahead. I also state that it has every thing to do with me loosing my head. From a cool bachelor with an ultra-cool nickname of Kat, I was transformed overnight into Pati ji. To complicate the matters further, though it brought me joy, I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy. So we are a Tam bram, Mallu-Punju mix; hence the term Pan-Indian.

When you marry a Punjabi, you marry the whole family. It’s a culture thing. And a very complex experience. Like tenure in the Siachen Glacier, it’s to be undergone to be believed. Passionate about everything, from the weather to cricket, films to politics, they live their lives at full throttle. I should know, I have been married into their ilk and have been valiantly serving for over a decade.

They greet each other with a hearty Hello ji and a bone crushing jhappi (hug) but come anybody even a few minutes elder it’s a Paeri Paon (I fall on your feet). In fact, when I first heard that absolute gem Sir ji, I almost did a Paeri Paon face first.

Their language is colourful and spicy, a lot like their food. It’s rich with phrases. Swear words intersperse ideas, and even punctuate sentences. There is no gender bias in this, the women use Khasma nu khaani (Spouse-killer) while the guys go into raptures with BC or to be more precise PC (sister f…er). I know some people who use five -six of them in a sentence. They mean no harm, its rather like a punctuation, so daan’t mind yaar.Some of them have a particularly weird habit. They repeat every thing they say. That’s once in Punjabi then in English. Like Main othey gaya see, I waant thare you know. Tay phir main unu kutya, thaan I thrashed him.

Moving on to their food; it’s simply mind blowing and mostly meat and chicken. Off course, most restaurants have gone overboard on the masala bit; the Brits having adopted the fictitious Balti or Tikka masala as their most popular dish. Trust me when I say that cocaine can’t come close to the levels of a high you can reach when Pammi Aunti ji serves you a keema mutter with parathas. The food will be rich and hence, their Haalthy figures and rocketing cholesterol levels. The bypass operation, I suspect is a status symbol. At least that’s what I felt when my FIL underwent his. The conversation at the Escorts Lounge went some thing like” Tch tch, tussi fifty dey ho and no blaackage”.

The Punjabi male really comes into his element at a wedding. At a wedding he wants to get drunk in the first 45 minutes, all while gorging and glutting on Naanveg. Incidentally, drinking, actually make that getting drunk, is a big macho thing. One song even goes this away; Kunda khol basantariye, tera tol sharabi aaya (Open the door, baby, your drunk hubby is back home). Then he starts dancing. The start-up phase involves keeping all hands up, everybody giving each other the fore finger, and lifting your knees alternatively; all this while they let out war cries like ‘hadippa’ and ‘Brrrrrrup’. Finally, every guy screams ‘Chak De’.

Having said that let me acknowledge this; rhythm and the punju are made for each other. You see toddlers doing the bhangra and elderly matrons doing the gidda with consummate grace.

Then there is their astounding ingenuity. A Punjabi is never ever stuck for ideas. They even have a term for it; ‘Jugaad’. I have come to understand it as an alternative path to salvation. Practically, Jugaad means shoehorning a 2000cc diesel engine into a Maruti-800 bonnet. Jugaad means sticking a thin plastic film on to your CD tray and preventing a wobble rather than shell out 2500/- for an authorized SONY repair job. Some of you would know that in the villages of Punjab Jugaad is a vehicle. It is used as a public carrier. It’s a three wheeler welded together using scrap metal and is powered by a water pump; ……..yeah a water pump.

There is so much more to tell about them, the shagun tradition- they’ll pull out 500/- buck notes and press it into your hand for mundane reasons, like you’ve bought a toothbrush or you’ve come to their house for the first time this month etc. There is this obsession with 10,000 watt music systems which they cram into their tiny Maruti Zens (I’m told that’s true even in Southhall which is North West of Karol Bagh). Not to forget their weird pet names for each other. I know a guy whose wife’s name is Dollar (maybe Dilawar Kaur or something) and he has a she-dog named Begum. But these are the modern guys. Earlier, every boy was a Kukku or a Laali and the girl was a Laddo.

Now before you start off about political correctness; this little piece isn’t really ‘a pull them down’ one. Their industriousness, ingenuity and large hearts are on record. There was an entire generation of them on both sides of the Radcliff line who suffered partition. Uprooted from their homes, transported to a new place, loosing lives, limbs and property; the trauma was colossal. I don’t know how the guys in Pak Punjab are doing, but for the ones here life is wadia, and everybody is doing aalrite.

Finally, since I know that someday my wife’s relatives will read this on their Paantium PCs, and since they still feel that Pammi da Madrasi Jawaai bada decent hain ji. I better stop.

To The Manners Not Born

One Sunday we (Sang, Rory and I) went out for dinner to Blini. It’s a small restaurant at Anand Market that serves Russian fare. We’d been there a couple of times before. The place has four tables and a limited menu, but is great on service and limitless in charm.

We reached at about 8 PM and found all tables taken. Boris the owner, Captain, cook and Maitre’de wryly shrugged and asked us to wait about twenty minutes. We decided to take a walk. Going downstairs, we crossed this couple. The guy, an Anglo-Saxon was clad in a bedraggled T shirt and shabby shorts. Shabby had this creature clinging onto his arm who was mebbe far-eastern (Fern). Fern was expressing her undying love vocally and physically….and very publicly. We smiled by way of greeting, which this modern day Romeo-Juliet were oblivious of.

Fifteen minutes later we were back at the entrance when I saw that Shabby and Fern were also standing outside. I walked in and looked at Boris. He smiled this time and said “Aynother tayn meenutes”. When I told Sangeeta this, she laughed and said the food would be worth the wait. Shabby now notices us and questions me.

“Uhh, ummm uh what’d he say”?

I say “Who”.

“Boris, off course”.

I say” Oh another ten minutes”.

“Aaahh”.

Silence thereafter punctuated by Fern’s giggles and groans. “He’s always rude y’know”, grunts Shabby. I can’t agree so I say “Not really”. Fern finds this hilarious. But soon she’s all over Shabby and they promptly ignore us.

That’s when the door opens and the waitress beckons us. Sangeeta and Shaurya walk in. I am about to follow them when Fern let’s go with a shrieking yell. “How dare you, we are before you, the table is ours”. I stop. I am mumbling, about Boris, about the wait, about us crossing them on the stairs. Fern is having nothing of this. Shabby now turns into Neanderthal man, “We are going to take that table”. The vision of a quiet, peaceful dinner has gone puff. The Alpha in me is subdued by the desire to be polite. After all, they are people from another land, visitors, Athithi Devo. I call Sangeeta back. That’s when Boris steps in. He appears to have had enough. “Zey wer heeyer beefore you, the table is theirs, you want to eat, you wait”. Shabby mumbles something under his breath, Fern as lady like as ever bows theatrically and says the F word. We stumble in now very unsure.

Just then another table is vacated. Boris gestures at Shabby who clambers on to it. Fern is still going yackety-yack.

Dinner continues. I play around with my Lamb Stew with Rice; Sangeeta is looking at her Lamb Captain, while Shaurya valiantly attempts to finish his fries, chicken steak and coke; all at once. “Wonder why the beer tastes bitter, should we order some dessert”.Sangeeta smiles, says something about the manner in which it’s made, the manner in which it’s served.

Manners- to which some are never born.

ON LUNGIS AND LANGOTS

Part  One
Letter written by an indignant guest.

HAPPY  INDEPENDENCE DAY

On this poignant occasion I would like to make an observation after my recent visit to Delhi/Gurgaon and having met Col Moorthy. I hope you all will take this constructive criticism and not negative comments about Defence services in
India.

Let me first start by the experience that I had in Defence Service  Officers’ Institute, Dhaula Kuan. I attended a private party there but was stopped because I was wearing Kurta Pyjama – a very Indian dress!! I had to change into shirt and trousers to attend. I just could not believe that after 63 years of Independence the Defence services are not only still following but also robustly enforcing a British legacy dress code that was meant to keep “Indians” out of the British establishments.

Can anyone of you explain to me why this archaic and anti-Indian rule is still being enforced with such vigour? India is a democratic country. DSOI is not a private club but is paid for by tax payer’s money. If Dr Manmohan Singh, the prime minister of India, were to come to DSOI he will not be allowed to enter if he is wearing his usual Indian dress!!! How can
Defence services be proud to be Indian and ask civilians and politicians to strengthen the defence services when they
cannot shake off the British legacy??

Dinesh Verma

=============================================================================================

Part Two

A rejoinder by the Good ol’ Colonel

Dear Shri Verma,

I do not know you, your age, profession and other details. Hence I am keeping my viewpoint brief and pointed.  We  shall discuss each issue raised in the mail.

Firstly, the title goes overboard without establishing any base for a viewpoint.

Secondly, the DSOI is a club wholly funded by the members and some private and regimental fund.  No public fund is involved.  Hence the Institute is a private club and no taxpayers money is  involved.

Thirdly, the Kurta Pyjama maybe Indian; so is a Langot which is the only garment worn by many children in rural areas. In the south men wear only lungis around their waist and tie a towel around their heads.  In many tribes of
India women go bare breasted.  These are all Indian dresses.  Surely it is not your case that the DSOI should permit all these dresses purely because they are worn in some parts of the country.

Fourthly, I usually wear a kurta pyjama to sleep as night suit; it may be worn in some parts of North India as a casual dress (however fancy; it still remains a casual dress) to each others homes, but that is a regional practice. By the same logic, if Kurta pyjama is allowed in the DSOI, children should be allowed in Langots and adults in  Lungi etc.

Fifthly,  the dress code in the Army is laid down in the Red Book (an amendment to Dress Regulations for the Army). The formal dress is the National Dress or Dinner Jacket (Black Tie/Tuxedo), for an event in a club ordinarily one is expected to dress formally.  So the guests could be in the National Dress which is what the PM is often  seen wearing.  The PM does not wear a pyjama to the office.

Sixthly, in India the bulk of the people wear a trouser and shirt.  It has ceased to have any colonial connotation; those who try to attach some such non-existent significance to it are off the mark.  In fact the club has gone to the extent (which I am not in agreement at all with) of even allowing T shirts with collar; for male members.  Even the tie has been done away with, in deference to the hot climate.

Seventhly, just for the record we tend to run down the British (though I am no fan of theirs) in their own English language.

Eighthly, being a private club meant for defense service officers and their families the members are at liberty to lay down the dresses which are allowed in the club.

Ninthly, the club by allowing an individual to utilise its facilities albeit at a fee is within its rights to expect the guests to
adhere to its customs.  Taking off from your analogy if you are invited to the Presidents Estate you would take pains to find out what to wear; why not to your friends party.

Tenthly,  if you are in the corporate world try going to your office in a Kurta Pyjama with the same logic that it is an Indian dress.

Lastly, the dress is usually mentioned in all invitations from service personnel.  If left out one must enquire, particularly if at a Defence Establishment, that much is elementary.

This rejoinder may be impersonal in tone, but I have had enough SH*T with people telling the Army what to do. Our brainless media and the half educated public are often commenting on matters on which they have no idea; from Golf Courses, Canteen facilities,  orderlies, the AWWA etc.

Before you express an opinion, the least you can do is find out the rationale.

With Best Wishes,

Yours Sincerely,

Col PK Nair (retd)

This comes to me from Mikki Malik. Keep ’em coming sir.

Kalli

No, it’s not the Goddess of Death and it’s not that WWF monster (a favourite of India TV, yuck!). It’s an intense Mallu expression to describe a very complex emotion that we all experience, every now and then.

I turn right and enter the Tri-Shakti parking lot (the one for us lesser mortals), and the MP is working me into a nice little slot. The one that is going to ensure that I’m out of the gate in about a half-hours time after the guest lecture; which for my car pool is great going. The wife is back seat driving as usual. Suddenly, this guy pulls up behind, he’s blaring his horn and jams his way in. The others in his car look at me shrug wryly and walk away. You know the feeling that I’m talking about; that blinding rage, the anger, that fury, that utter helplessness. It’s not road rage; it’s Kalli.

Let’s do another situation. You are standing in line for that life saving coffee at Chanakya and this bloke comes over, grabs a cup, jams it in front of the machine and says, “ Jaldi karo”. What do you do? He’s three and a half feet tall, with a potbelly. Your seven–year old daughter could take him down. But you are a nice guy. You’re supposed to finish last. So you just look at him real hard. Oblivious, he chomps away to glory on his samosa. There’s stuff in his teeth, the chutney is all over his chin. You breathe deep and hard and feel. ……Yeah, you’re getting it, you feel Kalli.

Then there’s this milkman fellow outside your house on a Sunday morning. You place the vessel in front of him. It’s the beginning of a great day. You want to talk to him about the lovely weather, maybe even ask him about his cows, and how are they keeping, anything … just to share the joy of being alive in this wonderful world, this cauldron of people, events, happenings, experiences. It all goes phut when he sticks his finger deep inside his nose and says “ Dayd liter doon kya? (Give you a litre and a half?) ” …Kalli

Now you know why the production department doesn’t issue bazookas.

Look, I’m not trying to make a case against anybody. Perfection and me don’t know each other. All I want is a little consideration for your and my feelings. A little civic sense, some good manners, and as the pure Hindi wag would say Sabhya Bartav. You need not be politically correct all the time. You get wild, say so. You want to do your own thing, go ahead. However, that little bit of restraint, that check of your urge, that feeling for your brother being, will make this place a better place. With me?

I almost threw up

Surfing through a maze of blogs I hit a link to Shobha De’s interview by Karan Thapar’s on the Devil’s Advocate.

Shobhaa De: Well, if you go to West Bengal, Karan, do you hear anything but Bengali being spoken? Does anyone mind? You go to Karnataka, do you hear anything but Kannada being spoken? If you go to Tamil Nadu, do you hear anything but Tamil being spoken? So in that sense, may be a disconnect is happening in Mumbai. People think Mumbai belongs to all of India and therefore not parochially bound.

I was dumbfounded. And then came this

Shobhaa De: In a way, yes. Also, it’s a Maharashtrian city, people who choose to live there should learn and speak Marathi. If I were to make West Bengal my home, I jolly well learn Bengali. If I choose to live in Punjab, I should learn to speak in Punjabi. All the signages, all over India, happen to be in two languages, sometimes in three. You go anywhere in India, the signages are in local script. Why is it that Mumbai is being picked on for insisting on both signages – Devnagiri, which is also Marathi, and English.

I almost threw up!

Lemme get this straight. I was born in Pune. So I should know Marathi. My folks then moved to Meerut. I did learn Hindi. They then went to Jorhat, I should be spouting Ahomi. They then moved to Calcutta (then). I did manage to pick up Bengali. There was some time spent in Bangalore and Guntur – okay so Kannada and Telegu needs to be covered. I’ve done time since then in Leh, Srinagar, Bathinda and Arunanchal and am now in Jodhpur. SO that takes care of Kashmiri, Ladakhi, Punjabi and Marwari. Oh I almost forgot, My old man is a Mallu and mom is a tam-bram.

So I need to speak, read and write eleven , make that thirteen languages. Then and only then will Ms De be happy. KT rarely disappoints when he wields the knife mike.