about staying single ...

GOING SOLO

poornachandra

It was the same old story again. One more of my childhood chums was taking the plunge. Our gang of buddies, some with better halves, were chatting while the couple-to-be was busy with the rites of initiation into holy matrimony. Most of them were veterans who took the plunge aeons ago. They decided to teach the few good men amongst us, who still stood ashore, the finer aspects of life. And the conversation veered towards the divine wedlock. “In marriage, the first chapter is written in poetry and the rest in prose,” said the Writer. “So get married and have an everlasting romance.” His wife added, “How long are you going to drift around. Get settled in life.” The Musician chorused, “Enough of singing solo. Try the duet, it’s heavenly.”


Their words got me thinking. In the pleasant monotony of bachelorhood, maybe there was a need for some excitement. Not one to be convinced easily, the sceptic in me invoked the greatest philosopher of them all, Socrates, and asked him, “Should I marry or not?” To that he replied, “Whichever you do you will repent it.” I shared these words with the friends and thought aloud, “To do, or not to do!” The Pragmatist, who was the last one to switch courts from singles to doubles, said, “Marriage has many pains but celibacy has no pleasures,” quoting Dr. Samuel Johnson. “According to Shaw, marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity,” he added. “So many wise men, so many wise thoughts. Maybe I should go ahead and follow them,” said Captain Courageous, who could be incited into acts of bravery easily. Doubting Thomas, amongst friends known to be the patron saint of bachelors, quipped, “Married men live longer than single men, but married men are a lot more willing to die. So look before you leap.”


One saw marriage as an affliction from which a lucky few are protected. From another point of view matrimony is the battlefield into which the weak-hearted dare not enter. Being the brave one Captain Courageous was ready to desert Singledom and defect to the other side. But not me, I thought. I’m immune to this epidemic. Or maybe I lack the courage for this battle. Marriage is an institution, they say. And I don’t want to be institutionalised. There was nothing much happening in the Captain Courageous’ life anyway, except keeping appointments and meeting deadlines. So he dared. “But I’ll get married only after falling in love. No arranged marriage. It’s the New Age Woman of substance that I seek,” he told the folks. “Love is like the measles; we all have to go through it. Now’s your turn, and we’ll arrange for that,” chorused the gang.


Before he could say “Saint Valentine,” he was with this pretty young thing, courtesy the guardian angels. She batted her lashes and simpered a little, and she had Courageous panting like a puppy. “She’s the Bharatiya Belle. My woman of substance. She wears western clothes but still respects Indian traditions. She stood first in class in her eighth standard and was Miss Defence Colony during her college days. She idolises Mother Teresa, loves animals, and wants to use her inner beauty to work for world peace. The right mix of ethnicity and modernity. She’s the one I always dreamt of,” he told me. “Best of luck,” I said. The rest happened at the speed of light. After a whirlwind campaign of romance he called the Blisskrieg, he popped the question, she wore his ring, and one fine day, they took the plunge. “And they lived happily ever after?!?!” I said as they drove off for their honeymoon. “Amen” said the gangsters. I went back to my bachelor pad, hoping that this latest convert to their faith finds his salvation.


It was almost a year later that Saint Thomas and I bumped into Captain Courageous at the parking lot of the biggest shopping mall downtown. As we exchanged pleasantries, I sensed something wrong about his expression. The plunge seemed to have affected him a lot; he was wet and dripping. We asked him how the going was. “Marriage is beautiful. A terrible journey, a season in hell and a reason for living” he blabbered. The poetry from the first chapter seemed to have got to his head. I asked him whether he managed to win the Krieg to find Bliss. “She’s beautiful and sweet. She’s an Indian Goddess all right, but is a westernised MTV-style divinity at that. She’s crazy about Ricky Martin and thinks I’m silly to be still listening to the likes of Kishori Amonkar. I get to see her in all her designer glory and be her escort. I also get to walk her three dogs, sing to the pair of kittens, and talk to the parrot. And of course, I get to pick up her shopping bills and swipe my credit card. She won’t work because she can’t find anyone who’ll pay her what she wants. She can’t be a mere housewife because that would be against her ideals of liberation. She’s been trying forever to attain the New Age Nirvana, while I try and keep up. It’s true what they say: Love is blind, and marriage is the eye-opener.” Having said this in one breathless stretch, he turned away to receive his ladylove who arrived with a cartload of shopping. We said hello to her, and then bade them farewell. Before we split ways, the brave but now bruised warrior said, “Take it from me, marriage isn’t a word…It’s a sentence.”


As we moved off, Saint Thomas said, “I’ve always maintained that a bachelor is a fellow who never makes the same mistake once. The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage. So most of the folks enter the wedlock and that’s when the padlock is shut. No comebacks. Poor things, it is a long-term rigorous imprisonment for them. They have to continue doing the same thing – running shops, selling soaps, making money – doing whatever hard work it takes to support their families. And go on working towards owning that sleek car, designer jeans, branded cosmetics, and all those symbols of happiness.” It’s rather scary, this system, I thought. “All these events in time-space help to make up one’s mind to stay single, and travel light. So here I am, going solo, yet, so high,” he added.


“Don’t you ever feel lonely and melancholic?” I asked. He quoted some wise man with a trademark smile and said, “One was never married, and that’s his hell; another is, and that’s his plague. So after all maybe one may go ahead and get married. But the timing ought to be real right.” “So when should a man marry? What’s the right timing?” I asked, as the parting question. The wise old bachelor boy said, “He marries best who puts it off until it is too late,” and bade me good-bye. I could see the mist lifting and the light shining through it. And I could see the path…

©2001

first flight at fifty...

FIRST FLIGHT AT FIFTY

(A MOTHER'S STORY IN HER SON'S WORDS)

poornachandra... for sree valli

My seat-belt fastened, I braced myself for something I had never experienced before. The huge bird of steel shuddered, noisily building up power. As the pitch of its mechanical music reached a crescendo, it began rolling ahead on its wheels, eating up the tarmac with an ever-increasing speed. With all its might it strained itself to free itself from the shackles of earth’s gravity. I waited anxiously for the result of this great struggle. And suddenly, the bird was free! We were airborne. With its head held high in victory, the giant bird soared into the blue skies. Soon we were in the heavens, enjoying the companionship of clouds and the sight of earth far below. I was headed westwards with my husband, to meet my children in Ohio, the birthplace of aviation. A hundred years after the Wright brothers accomplished a magical feat, I tasted the flavour of my first flight. First flight at fifty. The beginning of an unforgettable adventure.

Fifty. Half a century. A small but cherished landmark in any batsman’s innings on the cricketing field. Golden Jubilee for any event worth commemorating. What was this number fifty to me? My age. The length of my existence as a living being. A major part of my life’s innings is over and done with. Was it eventful? Born into a traditional South Indian family, a large one at that, I grew up in the confines of a middle class milieu. A great imbalance prevailed between requirements and resources. Reality, with all its hardness, was always in your face. And even dreams never really took off in the absence of opportunities. And I was a girl-child. Even before my teens whizzed past, I was married, and entered another big family. At twenty five, I was the mother of three. Soon I became a working woman supporting my man in making ends meet. Many a battle was fought for survival and for the security of my home and hearth. Life in all its unfairness was the constant adversary in the midst of changing times. I never realized how fast my brood of three little birds grew wings. One by one, they took to wings and flew out of our nest. They traveled far, to distant lands, each seeking its own destiny. Each in search of its own place in the circle of life. When comprehension set in, we were alone, man and wife, awaiting the onset of Autumn before the inevitable Fall.

Free from responsibilities, we could now begin the second innings of life. This one would be played at a relaxed pace, with no pressure of striking hard and fast to chase some complex target. We made a few leisurely trips, and soon succumbed to wanderlust. Very soon we found a happy reason to travel across the seas. Our younger son and the daughter were graduating from Ohio State University at Columbus, Ohio in the United States. My boy Anil had earned his doctorate in Molecular Genetics while my little girl Uma finished her Masters in Anthropology. The occasion was to be a much awaited family reunion and a celebration for the academic success of my kids. The only one missing was our eldest son, a Major in the Indian Army, who had just moved to Bhutan on a foreign assignment.

It was the 28th of August, 2003. A great day with memories to treasure and cherish. After a wonderful graduation ceremony, my children decided to celebrate. Some would pop a cork and say cheers with some bubbly. Some would gorge themselves on a feast. Some would shake a leg and break into a jig. To each his own, they say. My brood of little birds, when they left our nest, had learnt to fly in the literal sense. One after the other, they heard the skies call, responded to it, and found it irresistible. The elder son is a paratrooper in the Army and he calls himself a “Professional Dropout”. He initiated his younger siblings during a visit to the US years back, and since then all three have been badly bitten by the skydiving bug. Parachuting was the family prescription for an adrenalin rush. So we traveled to AEROHIO, the largest skydiving centre in the Great Lakes Region of the American Midwest. The kids would jump while the parents watched, and together we would celebrate the happy occasion at the drop zone, or Dee Zee as they called it. I was full of questions about what was their favourite sport. The last time I had seen someone jump was during a demonstration in Hyderabad sometime in 1998, when my soldier-son participated. That, they told me, was a static-line jump used for mass military drops. What I was to watch here was a display of freefall and relative work by my kids.

They got into their jump suits, wore their rigs and flew away. We kept looking up at the wide welkin till our necks went stiff. Out of the blue appeared a few colored blips. They grew bigger as they got closer. One by one, each of these blips blossomed into a rainbow of colours when the canopies of the parachutes opened and caught wind. They floated beautifully, making exquisite patterns in the sky. They circled the drop zone lazily, and glided back onto terra firma almost reluctantly. Among the dozen jumpers who returned after a heavenly flight were my little babies, now looking really big and grown up. I was awestruck and overwhelmed with joy at the sight of my winged angels. They were really inspiring.

Looking at my face, a kaleidoscope of emotions, my “pretty little butterfly” Uma asked me if I would like to experience the joy of a skydive. I didn’t even blink before saying yes! You only live once and so never let go of an opportunity that comes your way. It was knocking at my door and I was surely going to welcome it with wide open arms. So eager was I to partake of the heavenly feast that was on offer. I had no idea of what lay ahead. Nor was I prepared in any way. But I recalled the tag line of an airline ad that asked “When was the last time you did some thing for the first time?” I’d do it, whatever happened. I had to change from a sari into a jumpsuit. My kids plunged into the task of finding a jumpsuit large enough for me and my little tummy together. Several trials followed in the changing room, but with no success. I was getting despondent that there wasn’t one that would fit me well. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to jump! Anil consoled me and said that we’d try again at San Diego, California, where he was moving for his post-doctoral research. But Uma was not one to give up. With her never-say-die attitude she kept searching and I kept trying. Just when I was about to say enough, we got lucky. Someone did make a suit large enough for me. While I changed, the kids announced that they’d be accompanying me all the way from the ground to the sky and back.

I was to do something called a tandem jump. This tandem is a jump which requires only thirty minutes of training after which one would freefall attached to a highly experienced skydiving instructor in a parachute system built for two people. We would be flying up to a certain height, exit the plane and freefall for one minute. The instructor, or jumpmaster as he is known, would then open the parachute and glide me through a five minute descent and a smooth landing. This, I was told, is the easiest way to experience a first skydive. I got ready while I took the instructions from the jumpmaster. He too was excited with the proceedings and looked forward to helping an old lady from India discover flight. He briefed me patiently and said all I had to do was cooperate. It wasn’t over at that, what with risk and responsibility attached to the whole thing. They gave me some documents to read and sign: they outlined various aspects of hazard and liability in jargon that was very much legal Latin. Well, I had no mood to go through them. If they wanted my signatures, they’d get them. I didn’t even bother consult my husband or seek his approval. I was raring to go and take my leap of faith. So off I went hurrying to the airstrip. The jumpmaster observed all my enthusiasm and decided to make the occasion a truly memorable one. He convinced a fellow instructor to accompany us and film the jump. That would mean a lot. I could actually carry my memories home on video.

I almost ran to the aircraft with my children by my side. This plane was small and cute. They told me it was a Super Otter. Compared to the metallic monster that transported us across continents, this looked like a toy. The rotors were revving with a melodious hum, and they seemed to welcome me into a new world. I was young again. My dreams came back, and I could make them come true. I’d start here and now with flying. We were some ten odd jumpers. I was to jump last and so boarded the plane early, right behind my instructor. The roof was low and so we moved on our knees. The others followed suit. We sat down in two rows, legs stretched ahead. They closed the door and the plane ran ahead on the runway. A short sprint and we were flying. All the way up my kids kept pepping me up with encouragement. The camera was focused on me, recording the emotions that illuminated my face. I was in some kind of a hypnotic trance, oblivious of the world around me. Anil shook me out of it and pointed at my altimeter. It showed 14400 feet above ground level. The door was opened and people started jumping out. In twos and threes, they exited and plunged towards the earth. I was impatient for my turn. I watched Uma and Anil lock their hands together and dive. I was next.

My harness was attached to my instructor’s on our way up. So we waddled together to the door. The jumpmaster yelled out his commands and we jumped. I went out with a cry of “Jai Hanuman”. I saw the world upside down as we tumbled. Faster and faster we went. Everything zipped by in a blur. Suddenly we were stable in our freefall. The wind rushed past as we shot towards the ground. This must be the terminal velocity they talked about. I was flying in the sky! I saw the other jumpers below me and the photographer right in front. The world I lived in was a small image far, far below. It was an exhilarating feeling. Now I began to understand the saying that only skydivers know why birds sing. I wished it lasted for ever. I could feel my jumpmaster pull the rip cord, and then there was a loud pop. Our fall was arrested and we were pulled upwards. The canopy was deployed. We began a slow and gradual descent. The jumpmaster kept talking to me, asking me to look around and enjoy the view below. A bird’s eye view of the landscape was one of the best sights of my life. It was a long slow canopy ride. I didn’t want to down to the ground, but gravity is an undeniable fact of life. What goes up has to come down. We glided down to the drop zone and the jumpmaster ensured a smooth landing. It was a happy landing from the blue skies. The jumpmaster unhooked me from his harness, and I rushed into the arms of my children. They were absolutely thrilled. They exchanged greetings with my jumpmaster and he complimented me on my performance. He parted with a “Welcome to skydiving.” A great ending to a superlative adventure. Real celebration of life. A life that is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath!

The Child is father of the Man. True to those great words; my children taught me something great and opened the doors to a brave new world. They gave me a gift I shall cherish to the end of my days. It was a personal achievement and a milestone for the family too; four out of five members having made skydives. Any attempt to complete the list by making my husband jump was precluded by his state of health. Maybe some other day. Months later, I am back in India enjoying my retirement, but am looking forward to the day when I return to the skies and dive solo. Meanwhile I look at the firmament every time I hear a plane and say a silent hello. I’ll be back.

"Give me one moment in time when I'm more than I thought I could be...

Give me one moment in time when I'm racing with destiny,

then in that one moment in time I will be free"

- Whitney Houston

04 Feb 2004

about dogs in the army ...

ABOUT DOGS

poornachandra

“The army is going to the dogs!” is a common exasperated expression I’ve been hearing all these years. “No, the dogs have come to the army” is the retort as common. What is it about the army and the dogs? It’s an existential problem I’ve been mulling over for some time. A retrospective view of my experience in an army gone to the dogs or with dogs in the army, as you like it or how you take it, is what I think will help me clear some mist.

During my jaunt on the Civvy Street my contact with the canine kind was limited to a distant view of these friends of mankind, cautious as I was due to my inability to differentiate between those that barked and those that went further to bite. But things changed once I turned onto the martial road and added my two feet in marching to the metronomic cadence. My encounters with dogs increased, and the respectful distance I maintained thus far began to decrease. I realized that the animals were mingling with the people like relatives. I also understood that one had to be either a dog or a dog-lover to make it to the cantonment who’s who. Otherwise, one could end up with a serious identity crisis. There were as many types of fanciers as there were varieties of dogs. There were the philosophers who thought that “The dog commends himself to our favor by affording play to our propensity for mastery.” There were cynical misanthropes who said, “The better I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.” And there were ardent supporters of ‘Animalloversunited.com’ who simply felt that “Happiness Is a Warm Puppy.” Wow!

Let’s leave the masters (and mistresses, to avoid gender bias and sound politically correct) and talk about the pets. Because they’re the protagonists of this piece. Also because they say “Like master, like dog.” If you shook hands (or paws) with one, it’s as good as making an acquaintance with the other.

Bozo was the ‘first’ dog I met in the army. He was the first citizen of the animal farm in my first regiment because he was the Commanding Officer’s own. He was always in a frazzled state, white hair turned dirty-brown and gone awry, eyes hidden under the very same hair, and never knowing whether he was coming or going. But he fraternized well with his master and gave him good company. Bozo was a Lhasa Apso, and the boss felt that he would do well during a high-altitude tenure, what with the added prospect of all those special rations. So off he went with the regiment, high above the snowline to the mountains, closer to his fatherland by a several hundred miles. But alas, neither the cold climate nor the tense circumstances of an insurgency suited him. The special rations didn’t help either. Both dog and master grew frail and cantankerous, eagerly waiting for deliverance from the high-altitude-and-uncongenial-area. Of course it came, well after both earned their medals for valorous service and the blue ribbon showing white peaks.

It was in a peace station when the first soldier of the regiment changed. There was a corresponding change of guard at the first canine’s chair too. The color changed from white to black, the name to Dollar, and the breed…I don’t know to what. This one, I guess, knew that his namesake was with the richest kid Richie Rich. He behaved in keeping with his regal status, and drew on all his perks and privileges. But he was perpetually in the company of Nonie the cat, and that really confused his sense of identity. He chased mice instead of men, and never really matched his master in stature or status, except when he pretended.

My exposure to canine lifestyle took a revolutionary leap when I volunteered and joined the Airborne fraternity. The sheer number and variety of dogs in my new regiment was an education in zoology and sociology. This was definitely the place that made someone exclaim that the dogs have come to the army. It could be the dog compartment on the Noah’s ark. And the masters and mistresses in this place followed the simple dictum “Love me, love my dog.”
Leading the pack were, as usual, the first family’s pet canines. There was Oscar the Alsatian and Simba the Labrador. Both were big enough to take a bite off my thigh and finish it without a burp. They maintained a haughty air worthy of the Egyptian Pharaoh, and disdainfully disregarded any friendly overtures from lesser beings like me. They roamed the unit area like kings and the subjects diffidently stepped aside to let them pass. If they had ranks in the canine hierarchy, these two would definitely be Colonels, or maybe more.

Our regiment was abode of breeds as exotic as the Masai warriors. There was Bimbo the Beagle, the playful one with a British lineage. The English blood didn’t make it stiff, though. She was all over the place, gregariously making friends with man and beast alike. Energy and enthusiasm marked her character. Sheba the mongrel surpassed all the others in friendliness and affection, remarkably making up for her lack of pedigree. But her saccharine sweetness could get uncomfortably cloying at times. So, one kept his distance. Then there was the quaint and contrasting character of Anastasia the Basset-hound. Ana, as she was called, appeared eponymous with some mysterious Russian princess. Pale, quiet and inactive, she seemed to be brooding over her colorful past, contrasting it with a drab present. Her dolorous expression reflected the collective sorrow of some bygone royal dynasty that had lost all its glory to the vicissitudes of history.

The regimental kennel had old inhabitants leaving and new faces showing up, whenever some human counterpart was transferred on posting. That made life in the kennel spectacularly kaleidoscopic. There was Lisa the German Shepherd who spent a good part of the day liberally vocalizing her emotions and tugging at her leash. Maybe she heard some amorous bark she found irresistible, or maybe someone found her too alluring. Whatever the case was, one day she inexplicably vanished, never to return. There was Tiger, the most inappropriately named hound ever, who wouldn’t chase a cat and could be scared by a mouse. There were Dalmatians too, but only two, instead of 101. Sheba and Pasha, as they were named, were very social to the point of being intrusive. They were fond of visiting you as uninvited guests and making their presence felt. Imagine 99 more of them Dalmatians to make up the numbers… what a prospect!

And thus there were dogs, and dogs all around. They are as ubiquitous in the cantonment as are neatly-trimmed hedges and well-maintained pathways. They have life so good that it necessitates the expression “It’s a dog’s life” to be redefined. They get a human companion who dutifully walks them, or runs with them, as the master feels apt. Good food in terms taste and variety is there for the asking. Their only competitors in terms of attracting affection are the master’s own progeny. And their closest rivals when it comes to demanding attention are humans of the feminine gender. Things couldn’t get better. It wouldn’t be just an anagrammatic twist if one felt that dogs in the army are almost divine, considering the way they are worshipped.

To talk of it, dogs have found context even in spirituality and Zen. There’s an interesting story is about the monk who said to a Master, "Has a dog Buddha-nature too?" The Master replied, "Wu" — which is what the dog himself would have said. That could be the answer I’ve been looking for.

That’s all about dogs.

18 0ctober 2002

about a turning point ...

A QUIRK OF FATE

poornachandra

I was reading a book on Indian history.

“Robert Clive was responsible for the establishment of the British Empire in India.” This sentence got me thinking. Thinking about that man and his strange story.

Clive! Baron Clive of Plassey. 1725 to 1774. British soldier and colonialist. Founder of the British Empire in India.

The problem child of an English commoner! A person who was pronounced worthless by the wise old men in his neighbourhood!

An exasperating young man whose father was driven to desperation and forcibly transported his son to Madras in the service of the East India Company.

That’s how Clive reached Indian shores. He was just an insignificant clerk, very much like his harassed old parent. Inconsequential with his limited and unremarkable talents. Practically a failure, very early in life.

But ambition, they say, is the last refuge of the failure. It was a wise man who remarked that the greatest evil which fortune can inflict on men is to endow them with small talents and great ambition. Ambition is the fuel of achievement. And the incentive to ambition is the love of power.
With an ambition that is a common affliction of men – lust for power, lust for fame, and lust for lucre – supplemented by the enthusiasm of the young blood throbbing in his veins Clive chose to forsake the scribe’s quill and pick up the sword. To be a soldier of fortune.

During the course of his tumultuous life in India, he was captured by French, escaped, was allowed to make his proposed daring dash to seize Arcot, held citadel eight weeks with small a force until relieved and captured other French strongholds. He left for England only to return again to India. He was governor of Fort St. David when he reduced the pirate stronghold of Gheriah. He was then sent to avenge the atrocity of Black Hole of Calcutta. Clive recovered Calcutta, defeated the Mughal nawab Sirâj-ud-Dawlah at Plassey, and installed Mîr Jaffar as nawab. At one time he was the virtual ruler of Bengal. He repulsed the Dutch colonizing attempt, entered Parliament in England and was raised to Irish peerage as Baron Clive of Plassey. He was sent out as governor and commander in chief of Bengal to right the disorder and corruption grown up in his absence. Then he reformed civil service, restored military discipline and obtained for East India Company sovereignty over the whole province.

Deep-rooted avarice and self-interest, strong elements of his character, stoked and sustained the fire in him. That fire kept him going through the ups and downs of life and he survived the vicissitudes of fortune. Using his brain and brawn both, Clive managed to gain a foothold across the threshold of the vast continent called India. He then handed over the spoils of his victory to his masters. All this, to impress his superiors and gain their approbation. For the pleasure of some plaudits. To erase the obloquy from his memory. The psychological reaction to a childhood filled with disapproval and scorn from his elders.

But –

That foothold – a consequence of one man’s desire for some accomplishment and satisfaction – underwent a transformation of exponential proportions. It paved way for the discontentment and misery of a nation. It grew to a gargantuan size, big enough to trample the freedom of millions of Indians. A man afflicted by the most common of human sins changed the course or history. A nation endured two centuries of servitude and suffering. No wonder that somebody exclaimed that history is often cruel, and rarely logical.

When a disgruntled failure decided to reverse his fate and prove his critics wrong, and prove that he was not worthless as they thought …

Providence ordained that India, a nation acknowledged for its wealth, valor and wisdom become a servile colony of an imperial power. A great nation subordinated by a country comparatively so small and so far away that it was barely significant before history willed otherwise.
A stubborn man clutched at his fortunes, and it became a vise like grip around the fate of a people. And to loosen that hold …

Multitudes cried, fought, sacrificed and died. Delicate skin tolerated angry whiplashes and painful welts. Brave chests were daringly bared to face a hail of bullets. Free spirits were tormented by long agonising prison sentences. Mothers gave up their children for the Motherland. Widows mourned their martyred husbands. Generations renounced their invaluable youth. Emotions swelled. Rebellion raged. Battles were waged. Heroes were born. Hearts were torn. Millions prayed. Legends were made. A momentous struggle was launched and sustained at great costs.

India’s historic saga through the tortuous path of time and an eager nation’s long wait for liberty… everything to loosen one stubborn man’s hold…

The catharsis came after what seemed timeless ages. For an era there were masters and there are slaves — and then, on an extraordinary midnight, there were the free. The shackles were finally broken. The language of liberty was jubilantly spoken. What a journey it was…

A journey that began with one man’s ambitious step. Clive. There’s a story that recounts Clive’s attempt at suicide. It was before his voyage to India. Despaired by failure and discouraged by taunts, he decided to end his misery. He tried to shoot himself with his pistol. The barrel was pointed to his chest when he fired. But the bullet, by some quirk of fate, veered and missed the heart by a hairbreadth. Young Clive failed to die and was condemned to live. It was then that he was sent away from English shores to seek a new life in India. What a twist in the tale!

What followed is… history. What extraordinary vehicles destiny selects to accomplish its design!

If –

If that bullet had stayed its course… if only it had found its mark… How different would the story have been! What course would history have taken… for India, for England, for the world and its entire people…

And to know that he eventually succeeded, years later, in killing himself on returning to England…

The verse of Samuel Coleridge says it all –

“There's no such thing as chance;

And what to us seems merest accident

Springs from the deepest source of destiny.”

19 October 2002

about birds...

AVIANS OF AGRA

Smrithi Poornachandra

The phone rings and I pick it up a bit reluctantly. I know it’s my husband calling to ask me if I have packed and am ready to leave to join him at Agra. I live in the hills with its verdant green forests and crystal clear cold mountain streams. I do not look forward to going to the hot and dusty, and not to mention dirty, plains of Central India. “What do you want me to get for you?” my husband asks. He is cajoling me into thinking it’s not as bad as I imagine it to be. “I don’t know”, I snap irritably, “Camels and peacocks, ivory and apes.” He laughs, “I don’t know about the ivory but the other three, you will see in plenty around these parts.” He was right. I have seen camels striding along the lanes of Agra and apes scrambling on the rooftops. Best of all, I have seen beautiful peacocks wander around the undergrowth and in the gardens. For someone who has seen these magnificent birds only in a zoo, it is quite something to see them wander around freely

It has been a few months since I have been in Agra, and I have visited the famous Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort. But when asked what I like the best about this place, it is the plethora of bird life here. For an avid bird watcher like me, it is wonderful to be able to spot Tree Pies and Babblers from the comfort of my room. It was only the other morning that I spotted a pair of Turtle Doves, a pair of Drongos, a Flame-back Woodpecker and a pair of Parakeets, all on the same tree in my backyard!

The Agra cantonment is home to many of these feathered beauties. Many cantonments all over the country offer an oasis for these harassed and beleaguered little creatures. It is within cantonments that trees are looked after, and the tiny amount of wild life in the form of birds and squirrels are safe from being hunted or killed. Even an amateur can enjoy the simple pleasures of bird watching without having to plan and visit a sanctuary.

Bird watching is becoming quite a popular hobby with those interested in the outdoors. More and more bird books hit the stands every year and the papers report something about bird watching and birds almost every day. To get started in this rewarding hobby all one needs is to just pay a little more attention to the life around them, just look around and maybe get a pair of binoculars There are many birds in Agra cantonment that are commonly seen and hard to miss around the place.

The most common birds here are the bold Jungle Babblers, greyish brown in colour with yellow eyes and feet. They hang around in groups of fives or sevens and more. They are sometimes called the Seven Sisters for their tendency to perch at one place and have a loud and animated conversation, not unlike a group of excited girls! Another hard one to miss would be the bright Indian Peafowl seen crossing small paths and walking around the undergrowth. Their harsh cries join in the early morning symphony of the other gifted songsters. It does seem a pity though, that they are hunted for their meat and their feathers hawked as fans in Sadar Bazar. One can only hope for severe wild life protection laws to save them.

The Black-rumped Flame-back Woodpecker is another interesting bird that can be easily spotted from afar as he goes about his business of busily checking the barks of trees for food. He can be identified by the flaming orange crown that resembles a rather comical wind swept hairdo. With his black head and crest, the Red Vented Bulbul, with a red vent and a white rump, is a dark brown bird busily looking around for any fruit trees he can visit. They are delightful to watch and not hard to spot as they flit from small hedges and trees.

One also sees flocks of Rose-ringed Parakeet or Parrots as we call them, sweeping across the sky at various times of the day, chattering incessantly. They seem perfectly able to hold a conversation even in flight. It is sad for these sociable little birds to be locked up all alone in a cage, with no one to talk to but us humans, who somehow take great pleasure in hearing them echo a silly word or phrase over and over again. Another great conversationalist would be the Mynah. They are a common enough sight with their brown feathers and yellow beak, eyes and feet. Their look-alikes are the Brahminy Starlings, with yellow feet, beak and eyes, but the similarity ends there. They have a black crest and rufous orange sides of the head and under parts. It is amazing to watch Mynahs and their displays of aggression towards any their feathered friends who have been unlucky enough to incur their wrath. Their cousin, the Asian Pied Starling looks like a Mynah with a black-and-white coat. Should you see a Crow with brown wings, lucky you! You’ve just spotted a Crow Pheasant or a Coucal.

The Asian Koel, a greenish black bird (he looks black from afar) with red eyes a green bill is interesting to look out for. Though the male is black the female is spotted and barred with white, and looks like another species altogether. The Rufous Tree Pie has a slate grey or brown hood, buffish under parts, pale grey wing panel and a long tail with a whitish tail band. To make it simpler, one could just remember it as a brown bird with a very long tail. It can be seen in gardens with trees and bushes.

There are various kinds of doves that have their nesting grounds around the cantonment -the Laughing Dove with spots only on its chest, the Collared Dove with a black marking on its neck like a collar, the pale grey Oriental Turtle Dove and the Spotted Dove, who as the name implies, has spotted sides and neck. It is a peaceful feeling to wake up to their gentle cooing in the morning as they welcome the new day, and it isn’t hard then to understand why the dove is a symbol of peace.

On the other hand, there are the bold and inquisitive Black Drongos with their forked tails who displayed great interest in my valiant efforts at the garrison swimming pool. A cheeky one even skims gracefully just above the water surface as if to show the tired and ungraceful human how it is supposed to be done. If that were not enough, the Changeable Hawk-Eagle soars, sweeps and glides in the Agra skies to demonstrate the nuances of flying to the Airborne Warriors. I remember seeing one of them lazily circling around an earth bound skydiver’s parachute at the Malpura Drop Zone, as if to urge this strange looking bird up in the air again. Look around in the open fields, and with a brilliant turquoise flash one is treated to the unforgettable sight of the blue wing-tipped Indian Roller. Though rufous brown in the nape and under parts, it has a greenish mantle and turquoise and dark blue wings and tail. They are easily seen as that unmistakable flash of blue among the trees.

The Jeet Singh Stadium is active in the morning, with soldiers doing their PT and hockey players fighting for a match. Yours truly was trying to learn to ride as gracefully as the riding instructor, who didn’t seem impressed at all by my repeated impression of a thrown rodeo star. Once, the horse cantered away having finished laughing at me and the field seemed to have stopped spinning around. I took a look around, and the world was magically transformed as I spotted a flock of Common Ringed Plovers feeding among the small pools of water. They can be identified by their orange legs and bills, and have prominent black markings on their face and neck, with a dull brown feathers and white under parts. These birds frequent mud banks, and are seen in large numbers in the stadium after the rains, along with white Egrets, Storks, Rails, Spoonbills, Lapwings and an odd Purple Heron.

A few six weeks ago our kitchen garden was “flooded” because of a leak in the water pipeline. Annoyance turned to delight when a Kingfisher visited the garden and decided to stay for a while. The leak has long been fixed, but I cannot help keep flooding the kitchen garden often, because the Kingfisher returns to keep visiting us and has even brought along a friend! As I sit in the patio editing this article, a plump black and white Oriental Magpie Robin is peering down anxiously at the Tawny Eagle perched on my chair. I found the eagle at the Jeet Singh stadium, with a broken wing and a damaged and festering eye. I got him home and tended to him. He is well on his way to recovery and is content if he gets his chicken (twice a day), and three hot-water bottles (changed twice) during the cold winter nights. During the day he just perches on my chair and sleeps, waking up once in a while to glare at me with his good eye when I move the chair into the sun.

Barbets and Bee-eaters, Cuckoos and Coucals, Drongos and Doves, Eagles and Egrets, Flame-backs and Flower-peckers, Hornbills and Hoopoes, Minivets and Munias, Orioles and Owls, Nightjars and Nightingales, Quails and Rails, Wagtails and Warblers… and the list is a long, long one. Look around and enjoy. While in Agra cantonment, watch out for Airborne activity of the Avians, and you won’t need to go to Bharatpur.

© 2007

about mountains...

A TALE OF MOUNTAINS, MOUNTAINEERS
AND A TOY CAR

Smrithi Poornachandra

The snowy peaks of Zanskar glittered and ice crystals hanging on to the black rocks sparkled and shimmered sending out sparks of cold fire. Our boots crunched on the soft snow as we walked. It was breathtaking, like a scene from Everest on IMAX, only much more beautiful. But I was filled with gloom as we walked down towards Base Camp leaving behind a half fulfilled dream – Mount Nun. Situated in the Zanskar Range and towering proudly at a height of 7135 meters, it stands, a beautiful and stern giant.

Googie, my climbing partner who was nursing an injured and rapidly festering hand, was silent too. We had been a part of the Indian Mountaineering Foundation’s women’s expedition to Mount Nun, but petty rivalry and acrimony amongst the climbers along with my friend’s injury had made us decide to leave the expedition. Negative feelings were the last thing one wanted in what I believe to be is the sacred abode of the Gods.

It had been a tough decision to make, to abandon something I had spent months training for. It was no surprise then to find myself walking down the moraine with a heavy heart. But among all those heavy thoughts, what weighed the heaviest was a small object in my rucksack. Wrapped in a small plastic with the prayer flags and incense that I had carried for the summit was a little blue-green toy car that belonged to Asanga, my five-year old nephew.

He had come into my room as I was packing for the expedition. “Here, Bari (aunt), take this car and leave it at the top of the mountain,” he said. I told him that I would take it with me, but I couldn’t promise if I would be able to get to the top. “One cannot be very sure that one gets to the top all the time”, I had said.

“But you have to.”

“I will take it with me as far as I can get, and hopefully it will be to the very top. Even then I will place it there for sometime and bring it down with me. Okay!”

“No! You have to leave it there. At the very top of the mountain”, he said.

Seeing him so insistent, I asked him why it was so important to leave the car there. “The main thing is,” I added, “It’s not nice to litter a sacred place.”

“Because the Mountain Gods will recognize the car as mine and call me someday to collect it. Then I will be a mountaineer just like you.”

Walking down with my back to Nun I wondered briefly if I had made the right decision in leaving and what was I going to tell Asanga when I got home…

Nun was out of sight but I still turned around to take a last look at the mountains I was leaving behind. It takes a lot of courage and strength to climb, but it takes even more to stand by what you believe in. I knew deep in my heart that I would have done my best and weather permitting, got the peak, if that was all it meant to me. But the mountains are sacred, and mountaineering for me is more of a spiritual journey than a physical climb. As I approach the snowy peaks I greet them with the prayer that they allow me to climb and grant me the peace they hold within their souls. It would be wrong to therefore stay on and foster feelings of negativity in my heart when I was in a place that I considered sacred.

“If your presence is the cause of hurt
Why then are you angry with him?”

So said a great teacher, the Buddha. The climbing of a mountain is similar to Buddhism, I think. Just as one gets across crevasses, over ice walls, around avalanche prone areas and just as one keeps pushing the limit to go that one extra mile, so too in following the Master’s teaching, one meets with similar mountains of the mind where one tries to overcome human faults. Somehow the physical obstacles seem a lot easier to overcome than the mental ones. I had chosen to move away and now as I looked back, I wondered if I had made the right choice.

I could see the porters and the Sherpas of the French team coming down the steep slope with their heavy burdens. Their team had decided to call it a day and was heading back as well. Their guide, a tough mountain Sherpa named Tenzin called out, “Don’t worry, ET and Googie, you can always come back again another time.”

“Yeah,” I muttered under my breath as he easily caught up with us with his sure-footed quick steps. He smiled, I nodded and we kept walking in silence for the next hour. I was not feeling very social and neither was Googie, so we just walked ahead of Tenzin and his friend Sangaey, who tried his best to cheer us up just as we did our best to stay sunk in gloom. I was thirsty, so coming up to a flat rock we rested for a while and drank some water.

“You needn’t look so angry. You can always come back you know”, said Sangaey.

“Yeah, and the next time come with people you have known for at least little a while. Don’t just throw in your lot with a bunch of names on paper. That way you’ll be doing yourself and them a favour”, added Tenzin. “Come on! It’s just one peak. There will be plenty more to climb.”

I decided to sound stupid and look foolish, and tell them the truth.

“I feel bad having turned back, but there’s something else. I have a five-year old nephew who thinks I am Tenzing Sherpa, Hillary and god knows who else, all rolled in one. Now I’ve got to go back and tell him that I failed to take his car up to the summit. How the hell do I do that?” I glared at them fiercely, daring them to laugh. To my surprise they didn’t.

“Ah, kids! Real tough explaining things to them. Maybe his dad could do it.”

“He doesn’t have a dad.”

And there, sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere, two tough mountain Sherpas take some time to think and come up with a solution to a little boy’s dream - a boy who they have never even seen.

“You are coming with us to Leh,” Tenzin announced, “And you can get medical attention for your friend at the army hospital there, after which you can climb Stok Kangri and leave the car there.”

“But I’ve never been to Leh… and I don’t think…”

“Come, we are wasting time”, said Tenzin, and walked swiftly down the steep path once more. As he walked he explained that Sangaey would accompany us from the roadhead Tangol to Leh. Tenzin, who was in-charge, would take the French group to a place called Padum and then meet us at Leh.

We were sitting in the local bus that was going to take us to Kargil. “I’ll meet you in Leh,” said Tenzin, “And don’t worry about stupid things like money or where you’re going to stay. That’s not important. The RIMO boys will look after you. You’ll be staying with them.” RIMO is the mountain adventure company they work for, and it is based in Leh. The bus rumbled off towards Kargil, leaving behind a smiling Tenzing hidden behind a cloud of dust.

Once we got to Kargil, Googie and Sangaey both called home. I didn’t. My husband, an army officer, was in Bhutan on a foreign posting. I didn’t want to try and explain to him that I had left the expedition he had helped me train for, that I was now on my way to Leh with an injured friend, to stay in a place full of strange men, and climb another mountain called Stok Kangri with a man I had barely known for a few days. All this, so that I could take Asanga’s blue-green toy car to the summit. He is a very reasonable man, my husband, but I was sure it was rather too much to expect from the most reasonable of men. Besides, I was pretty certain that after hearing this, he would be worried if I was suffering from a form of altitude sickness or from a mild head-injury.

Back home, I knew my mother would be anxiously waiting to hear from me, but I also knew once I spoke to her she would insist I return home. As for Asanga, I didn’t want to think of the look on his face when he got to hear that I had failed to take his car to the summit. It was a restless night in Kargil for me. The next morning Sangaey put us in a bus to Leh and we were off. The view along the way was amazing: the dusty barren mountains were a stark contrast to the green hills of Darjeeling, my home town.

Once in Leh, my friend got immediate medical attention at the army hospital. The infection would have reached the bone in a day or two, so we were told. But after the operation, she was going to be all right. We heaved a sigh of relief and dragged my still slightly groggy friend back after the operation to “our room”, which the RIMO boys had vacated for the two of us.

Tenzin was right. They did look after us. Not only did they give us one of their rooms, but even insisted that they liked sleeping in the same room, and that being mountaineers they had all got so used to sleeping on the ground, and that they didn’t quite like sleeping in proper beds. We all know the truth. One does look forward to a nice clean bed and a little space after weeks and months of cramped tent life! For the few days we were there, they would not hear of us going around the town unescorted after dark. We didn’t have much money, as we had not foreseen this. But not wanting to burden them too much, we said we would eat out. To make sure we ate well, they kept “taking us out” as they put it, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It was unbelievable. It was too much, when we were even served bed tea. All this was done for us by a bunch of men who didn’t even know us.

Staying with these men, we saw a whole new facet of the mountaineering world. Cooks, porters, mountain guides (Sherpas, as they are called) and kitchen boys. These are the same men who lived in the face of constant danger, guiding people up and down the treacherous slopes of famous mountains that make mountaineers famous. Kanchanjunga, Everest, K2, Annapurna, Nanda Devi … The unsung heroes, the support group without whom no expedition could be a success. Men, who laughed hard, gambled and drank and sang, and risked their life and limb to look after and sometimes rescue people in the mountains. Men who sometimes spoke a language of their own like “tuppling” for tarpaulin, “kherepass” for a crevasse and “kharampom” that meant crampons. Men who had seen it all, blizzards, bad weather, accidents and deaths, and were genuinely happy for others when success was met and fame followed.

These men didn’t have heroic tales of dangerously dangling over a thousand foot drop, or having narrowly cheated death in some perilous situation. Their stories from Everest and Kanchanjunga and Nanda Devi were all about when they had done something very foolish or found something hilarious. They laughed at themselves and at each other. It was amazing how they had managed to find humor even in the worst of situations.

The best part is that most of these men are highly skilled climbers, many who have worked as instructors in the mountaineering institutes of India. One of them was leaving for England to work as a climbing instructor there. I know I can never thank them enough for having shown me what generosity of the spirit really means.

At 10.30 AM the next day, I told Googie not to worry and that I would be back the next evening.

“Do what you do and have fun. I wish I was going as well. Don’t worry about me,” she smiled, “the RIMO boys are here.” We laugh.

I knew Googie would be okay.

Sangaey had hired a vehicle to take us up to the roadhead. People pay him to guide them in the mountains, and there he was, paying for the vehicle as he would not hear of me paying for anything.

We left the roadhead at 11.30 AM and began our trek towards Stok Kangri. At 6150 meters it was a baby compared to the mighty Nun! Our plan was simple, to travel as light as possible and to travel fast. At 7’o clock PM we halted for the night.
After a meal of instant noodles and tea, made over a fire of dry yak dung that Sangaey had collected along the way, we got into our sleeping bags and slept behind some boulders. We had no tent. I was tired and slept soundly, bundled up warmly in Sangaey’s jacket as well as mine. He said that the night would be would be “horribly cold”, and insisted I wear them. Poor Sangaey, I don’t think the night passed off comfortably for him. He was right, it was a very cold night, and I don’t think the boulders were enough as wind shields.

At 3.30 in the morning, he woke me up. Silently we made our way towards Stok Kangri in the dark, our head lamps casting long shadows. At 11.22 AM, we were up on the summit of Stok Kangri, a mountain that will always hold a very special place in my heart.

I burned incense and offered my prayer flags and prayers to the Gods. Then I took out the blue-green toy car that had traveled all the way from Darjeeling to Nun, and thence to Stok Kangri. I placed the car on the snowy peak, and Sangaey took photos of the car and me.

“You can now show him the photographs of the car on the summit. Anyway, Stok Kangri is a lot easier to climb than Nun!” Sangaey laughed. I laughed too. Deep in my heart I prayed to the Mountain Gods to let Asanga come to them, and when he did, I prayed, may he come with a humble heart. “Watch over him when it is time for him to come. And watch over Sangaey and Tenzin, and all the RIMO boys as they guide people along your icy slopes.”

We climbed down and made our way to the roadhead at a pretty good speed. There was no vehicle to take us to Leh town. We decided to keep walking since we had no other choice. It was almost nine in the evening when we got back. I was tired but stumbled into a phone booth to call home. I know it is well past Asanga’s bed time.

“Mom, this is Smrithi. I think I have been walking for fifteen hours today, and I am very tired. But tell Asanga that his car is at the summit of a mountain called Stok Kangri in Leh.” And before she could say anything about me being in Leh, I hung up.

Asanga is six now. He still pores over pictures of mountains and mountaineers. He is able to point out crampons, karabiners, slings and ice axes. He is impatient to grow up and go to Stok Kangri when he turns thirteen. Sangaey was right. Mount Nun is rather too big for a thirteen year old kid.

Thanks to a little blue-green car, I met some really wonderful people who went out of their way to make a little boy’s dream come true. Maybe what I saw in these tough and cheerful men was what the Mountain Gods wanted me to learn. Thanks to these men, I came back from Leh richer in experience and in friends. Hopefully I am a better person than when I had left for the expedition.

I would like to think that as Asanga grows up in Darjeeling, the prayer flags atop Stok Kangri flutter the prayer “OM MANI PADME HUM”. His little blue-green car lies under the snow, while the Mountain Gods patiently wait for another mountaineer to find his way to them.

© August 2006

about army lives and "lady wives"...

LIFE IN STEPFORD

Smrithi Poornachandra

I remember watching the movie “Stepford Wives”, and wondering how people ever came up with such an idea for a script.

Here is the story for those who haven’t seen the movie. It is about a couple who move into a place called Stepford, and the wife is surprised at the strange behavior of the women. They seem very content to exist and work solely for the husband’s happiness and cater to his every whim and fancy. The story moves on to where she finds out about the human programming these ladies had been tricked into undergoing, and how their control were in the hands of their men . They are programmed to be the ideal woman (according to the men) - beautiful to look at, excellent homemakers and never complaining or questioning the men on their demands. These are the Stepford Wives. The couple gets bewildered at first and then slowly, as the movie proceeds, the husband is pressurized by the men to program his wife so that she fits into Stepford. He of course doesn’t think it is right, and the movie finally ends with the ladies all getting back full control of their lives.

Does such a place exist? I guess it does, in various walks of life … Take a look around …

Why, a few years ago I married and moved into Stepford …

How, one may ask …

I married an Army Officer and moved with him into his regiment.

Now that you’ve married into the Army, welcome to the world of “Stepford Wives”. The aim of your existence here is solely to look pretty and step in line to the “One Big Happy Family” anthem. Your main duty in the army is to host never-ending lunches and dinners and attend the same hosted by others. A part of your duty is also to attend the many army parties, your role there being purely of ornamental value.

Of course a large part of it is to ensure that the jawans’ wives are “well looked after”. This is usually translated as creating quite a few family problems for those jawans’ whose wives do not want to attend a gathering graced by a “lady”, who is sometimes not as half as educated as the jawan’s wife herself. Yet it isn’t uncommon to find many army wives insisting that the jawan’s families just cannot do without their guidance and advice.

What’s wrong with attending parties, one may ask. You have to attend one of these “parties” to actually understand how painful it is. The husband and wife arrive together. The men all move to one end of the lawn or disappear into another room altogether for the rest of the night, while the “lady wives” sit elsewhere and think desperately about something to talk about. It reminds me vividly of the men’s club house in Stepford where the women are not allowed. Of course the Queen Bee, meaning the wife of the senior-most officer, has her handmaidens around her to keep her amused. From my discreet enquiries I gather not many of the lesser mortals are actually happy to be there. The ladies and their husbands meet briefly when dinner is served. They tell their respective spouses how bored they all are and then breath a huge sigh of relief when it is time to leave, because then they finally get to see their husbands for the second time in the whole evening. Imagine having to attend such “parties” on a regular basis.

I had my impression that these gatherings were for mingling with people and mixing around. I have attended quite a few of these so called gatherings where the whole evening has passed with most ladies talking to the two or three immediate neighbours seated by their side. There is only so much one can talk about clothes and china or crystal and recipes and babies … And there is only so much one can stand of, “You know when we were in Wellington …” In fact it is quite hard not to reply, “Yes ma’am and it was your husband who worked extra hard to get there. What is your claim to fame?”

About manners … While giving due credit to the few real “ladies” out there (but they are few and far in between), the lesser said about manners the better. The rule is: the higher up your husband is the more powerful you become, and thereby earn the right to order the wives of the junior officers around. Agreeing to whatever these ladies say is the order of the day. Disagreement or non-acquiescence to their wishes is a no-no. As a wise commanding officer put it, “Everything is said to be voluntary in the army, but in reality it’s all compulsory.” For instance, if you have been invited to a movie you don’t want to watch, you must jolly well go there and pretend to like it as well. You get the drift.

Clothes and jewellery are always subject to scrutiny at the great army gatherings. At one dinner I have been asked about the price of the dress I was wearing. At another, I was told that I not wearing jewellery was fine, but now that I was in the army it wouldn’t do any harm if I wore a few diamonds… After all, my husband was on a foreign posting and could well afford it…

Did I mention there are classes on “grooming of army wives”? These classes are conducted by the senior ladies, some who make it pretty obvious they never had attended any other formal gathering apart from what the army has to offer. They talk about manners and etiquette to the newcomer and then can be overheard discussing petticoats and lingerie at the next dinner party! I hope Mrs. Manners is listening. And of course, it is done exactly in the same spirit as in the Stepford movie where one of the ladies is conducting a class on manning the mop and getting a workout…

Things are pretty sad at a peace stations. The ladies come to spend quality time with their husbands who have come into civilization from the field, usually after two or three years. The fun begins when they find that they have responsibilities like “family welfare”, better known as “family warfare” among some officers. Here one gets to help the “poor dears”, meaning the jawans’ wives, become “civilised” and “outgoing” and generally boss them around. I do not think it brings about a great change in the lives of the jawans’ wives who would rather spend the little free time on a weekend with their husbands and children. A jawan spends about a one year in maybe four years with his wife and children. That is, if he is lucky enough to get accommodation for them. When his wife finally joins him at a peace station, I am sure he would love to spend the Sunday afternoon with his wife and children - maybe go to the movies, perhaps just go shopping or visit friends. But it’s his lot to probably get into arguments with his wife who blames him for her being forced into dance rehearsals, welfare meets and such, when she would rather be with him!

Yes indeed, the family welfare does a lot for the poor jawan. He of course is looked at and treated as a mentally challenged inferior creature by the memsahibs, who think he is incapable of working out his family life without their well meaning but unwelcome interference. I wonder if these memsahibs understand that their husbands fight alongside these very men and god forbid, if one of them got injured, the same jawans will be there to evacuate them putting their own lives at risk.

Ladies, treat them with respect. This is the twenty first century. The average jawan and his wife are not the stupid village bumpkins you would like believe they are. Many of them have very educated wives and yes, they do seem to be better parents and spouses in many aspects than quite a few of us. And most of all, remember a bullet or a mortar does not discriminate between a jawan and an officer. These very men (whose wives we would like to boss around) will be there for our husbands in the pouring rain and raging blizzards or in the blistering desert heat. These are the men who think of our husbands’ comfort before they think of theirs. These men make sure that their Sahib eats on time, that he gets warm water for his shave and that his tent is pitched first… Need I say more?

Now, back to Stepford… Welcome to the Ladies Meet where one is supposed to be social and “thrilled to bits”, because one gets to play dress-up and Tambola and sometimes even grace the makeshift ramp at theme parties. One is supposed to have a lot of fun spending a perfectly good day playing “College Girls” or a “Lady in Red”. Come to think of it, the last time I played dress up was for my junior college socials!

These activities are designed for those ladies who have nothing to do and keep saying they are bored sitting at home. I would beg to differ here. I never seem to have enough time to do all that I would like to in a day. Maybe if the memsahib did some of her own house work she would not be so bored, and the Sahib’s Sahayak could go back to his unit and continue with the training that will one day save his life in the field. After all, the government pays him to undergo training and not to dust and clean the house, baby-sit army brats and walk the dog!

Bad enough, the army does not have regular weekends like the rest of the world. The wife has to attend these gatherings while leaving her husband and kids at home… Such is quality time. But then a senior officer put it, the “lady wives should be grateful if they just get a chance to even lie down next to their husbands at night” So much for being a “lady” in the army that such things are even talked about by those called officers and gentlemen. But this is Stepford, where the MAN rules supreme.

Mommy is out socializing and Daddy as it is never has time to spare! Say hello to the ABC (Army Brat Corps). The maid or the sahayak baby-sitting them dare not do anything to displease the little Babalog, and so generally let them do what they please. Ever wondered why some of these children turn rebellious teenagers, and when daddy comes home on retirement, refuse to listen to the man who has been away while they were growing up and now suddenly wants to become a part of their lives. Maybe it doesn’t happen to everyone, but it does happen to quite a few.

Well, what if a wife refuses to join in and toe the Stepford line, you might ask. After all ours a country where freedom of thought and speech is our fundamental right even if it is just on paper. Woe betides the officer whose wife doesn’t march to the army tune. He will be hauled up time and again for his wife’s “antisocial behavior” and his career is held at ransom. He will be harassed for not doing his duties properly, till he breaks or rather his wife breaks. Maybe in unfortunate cases, the marriage breaks! If she happens to be made of stronger stuff, the advice he will be given is to split from someone whose presence is detrimental to his career. I speak from first hand experience.

Of course there is counselling for the troubled lady by well meaning people who could land up at your doorstep at midnight, and give the lady advice on how she now “belongs” to the regiment (and here we are thinking about the modern liberated woman!) and how much nicer it would be if everyone joined the bonhomie and agreed to be One Big Happy Family.

It does not matter if the officer concerned is good at what he does and has been competent good in his long years of service or that he is an honest man (an increasingly rare species to be found anywhere these days). Or that the officer, like many sensible men, wants to leave the army.

If one ever made a serious attempt to find out the number of officers wanting to leave the army, the number would no doubt be surprising. Even when army officers get decent enough pay and benefits and the army looks out for them, there are quite a few officers who want to leave and start afresh. It could be because an officer’s career rests quite largely on his wife’s social activities within the army. Meaning how well she can please the boss and his wife.

The excuse given is that it happens everywhere. Yes indeed. When corruption and nepotism are rampant in every sphere of our country, why should the army lag behind? After all, an officer should be able to survive under fire in his own unit at a peace station if he is to do well in the Counter Insurgency Operations or in the front!

Very nice indeed, but then, what if one happens to strongly support the wrong organizations like the Human Rights? I do know how Human Rights are violated in troubled areas of our country. And what if one cares what happens to the local wild life when the army is banging away its big guns and explosives at exercises in various corners of the country? And especially if one has always believed that war is never an answer, I am sure this trend of thought would not work so well within the One Big Happy Family.


To be a successful officer one needs very different qualities than those required for a good officer. Unfortunately it is the successful ones who get to the top. It really doesn’t matter if he sticks to the rules that the army vehicle given to him to facilitate him carrying out his military duties is to be used solely for that purpose alone. Not as a means of transport for his memsahib and the brats around town. In fact he is being stupid for not improving his living standards at the government’s expense.

The fact that he is stupid rather than honest is even more firmly established if he treats his sahayak as a soldier and a buddy rather than an unpaid servant, one who is supposed to help with the gardening and the household chores - including serving guests, not to mention walking the Sahib’s dog and escorting his often ill behaved child to and from school. The maxim is “everyone is doing it and you should too”.

Haven fallen in love and married a man who happens to be an army officer, I have to keep telling people that I married the man and not his uniform. Unlike many who believe that the uniform is the man, my husband does have an identity that is separate from his uniform. He too believes that I have an identity of my own and I am not wrong in refusing to be a part of something I don’t believe in. Personally I think it is a waste of my time as I can’t help but wonder how making candles or Rangolis, and participating in a “liquid bindi competition” is going to help me improve my intellectual or physical capacities in any way.

I have put my profession as a teacher and a school administrator on hold for now, and become a homemaker. My free time is devoted to furthering my education, creative writing, saving wild life and corresponding with various sponsors to raise funds for a school for underprivileged children back home. Meaning, I do not have spare time to waste.

I do not question those who enjoy the army parties and their social activities because it is none of my business. I respect a person’s personal choice… just as I expect others to respect mine. But by refusing to be a part of all this, it is understood that I have jeopardized my husband’s career. What do I have to say to that?

Here is my answer. If in the army, a good man’s worth is judged by his wife’s attendance at parties and her abilities to host a dozen dinners… If his ability as an officer is questioned because of what they deem as his wife’s “antisocial behaviour” (read, wife’s unwillingness to play up to the boss’s wife)… If his wife’s choice to lead a life of her own and work for causes she believes in is considered a huge problem and “detrimental to his career”… And if being man enough to understand a woman has her own identity makes him an incompetent officer…

It is the army’s and loss not his, because it takes guts to be such a man in this organization and stand by one’s convictions against such heavy odds. And besides… we do not want to live in Stepford!

© 2007

about "indian identity"

I, PROUD TO BE AN INDIAN

Smrithi Poornachandra nee Rumdali Rai

A week ago I was visiting one of the wonders of the world, the Taj Mahal. I bought a ticket and stood in line to enter, only to be told very rudely by the person at the gate that I had taken an Indian ticket and was to have taken a “phorener” ticket. I tell him I am an Indian. He looks at me with utter disbelief, and says, “NRI ... You NRI,” in whatever context he means. My husband, an officer of the Indian Army, loses his temper and asks the person what an “Indian” would look like, and whether he can prove his Indianness. The man stares at us. Yes, we make a strange pair. My husband is a short, dark Telugu from Hyderabad and I am a stocky, “chinky” Gorkha from Darjeeling, which is in West Bengal. (And no! I am not a Bong).

This is a common thing that keeps happening to us whenever we go visiting any place of interest like a museum or a heritage site. The funny thing is that people with what one calls “Aryan” or “Dravidian” features are never questioned even if they take an “Indian ticket”. One could be from Bangladesh, Pakistan, Sri Lanka or the Persian Gulf, and never be asked annoying questions. Seeking entry into a museum in Chennai, I had to produce an identity card before the lady gave me a ticket. She had asked me if I was from Russia!

Hanging around any tourist spot is a danger.

“Madam, this Indian Art Madhubani Painting you want??”

“Interesting book, Kamasutra, You look?”

“Want to buy? Indian god Ganesha, good-luck bringer??” (Ganesha, by the way, doesn’t look too happy with the guitar he is carrying. Talk about Indian designer Gods!!)

“This, Moghal Art …” and a picture of some scantily clad females cavorting in a pool with a male is thrust under my nose. The weary day goes on.

No! I don’t want anything. I am just here to see the sights of my country. Okay! And no again! I am not a weird “firang” who would want to lug home some cow or yak bells, ghungroos, conch shells or a peacock-feather fan. I support wild life conservation, and am against any wild life product being bought or sold. Of course, I don’t want any other “INDIAN” stuff that no decent Indian would be seen dead in a ditch with. And I definitely don’t know what I would do with those leather whips… I am a practicing Buddhist!!

It is easy to laugh it off after the incident, but it’s not funny when it is happening, and one’s temper is already frayed by the heat and the noise and dust. This is because I come from Darjeeling, a cool hill station, and like all hill people I find it difficult to bear the heat of the plains. It is not because I live in a “phoren” land with air conditioning everywhere. Tradesmen apart, it is a crying shame that places visited by scores of Indians and foreign tourists are manned by such ignorant people: people who have no idea of the various dimensions of “Indian.” All in the name of serving the tourism trade. “Atithi Devo Bhava!”

***

Hey, hang on a minute. The identity crisis transcends borders. Let us move to another place. Hmmm … Let’s not go very far. We’ll stop by at our friendly neighbourhood Nepal.

The first lines they say when we meet, “Oh, you are a Nepali.”

“No, I am an Indian.”

“WHAT?! How can YOU be an INDIAN?”

“I come from Darjeeling, you know! And it is in India.”

“Ah, Darjeeling! Darjeeling was a part of Nepal once upon a time, you know. So you are a Nepali.”

“No, I am not! I am an Indian Gorkha,” one protests.

Then follows a long discussion over Darjeeling, whether it originally belonged to Nepal or to Sikkim. Or was it No Man’s Land?

“Look, I don’t know and I don’t care. As far as I am concerned I am an Indian. Okay! Generations of my family have lived and died serving the country as army men since the British times. And I can boast of an MC and Bar (Military Cross won twice), an IDSM (Indian Distinguished Service Medal) and an MM (Military Medal) in my family. My great grandma was also given a medal by the British for having sent all three of her sons into war for British India. Neither my parents nor my grandparents were from Nepal. So there, I AM an INDIAN.”

A brief silence, and then begins the hostility. “Oh yes, all Indians are crafty. They claim our people as their own. Why, they even claim that the Buddha is an Indian! He was a Shakya Prince, meaning a Nepali.”

“They even claim Mount Kanchendzonga as theirs!”

Umm … well let’s not get into arguments here. Not with friendly neighbours with whom we share more than just borders. One changes the subject, and steers the conversation to an uncontroversial topic.

***

A change of scene again, this time to the Tribhuvan International Airport, Kathmandu. The immigration officer is glaring at this impudent “Nepali” who insists she is an Indian, and has even committed the sin of holding an Indian Passport, that too issued by the Indian Embassy in Bhutan.

“Your passport is Indian.”

“Yes. That’s because I happen to be an Indian.”

“Your husband is an Indian, you mean.”

“No! I mean I am an Indian and so is he, but I was an Indian before I even met him.”

He scowls furiously, scribbles something on a piece of paper and tells me that I have to get a letter from the Indian Embassy. A letter telling him that the embassy does not have a problem with me visiting my sister in Bruneii. All my papers are in order. I have never heard of such a rule. Just too bad, I guess.

The plane takes off for Bangkok without me that day. My sister is mad at me for having missed the flight, as it meant I missed the connecting flight to Bruneii too.

I land up at the Indian embassy, where thankfully the staff is intelligent enough not to ask stupid questions. They have no problem with me going to Bruneii, why would they? They ask rather indignantly. The helpful embassy official says I can sue the immigration officer when I return. Very sweet of him, but I have to re-schedule my flight and hope like hell my sister has cooled off.

***

Let me go a little further, this time to Bruneii. Here, I am in a swimming pool in a hotel. It is a beautiful country with a great ambience and very nice people.

The Bruneiian lifeguard talks to me in Malay. I shake my head and say, “I don’t understand. Me Indian.”

He smiles angelically and winks, “Me British.” He laughs and then asks seriously, “You from Thailand?”

“No, I am an Indian from India”.

He looks back with the same disbelieving look that follows this statement of mine. He is not alone. A nice looking South Indian man splutters in the pool beside me.

“Did you say you were an Indian?”

“Yes, I did.”

He looks incredulous, “India! Which part?”

I decide to get smart … “Hyderabad.”

“HYDERABAD?!”

“Yes, Hyderabad. What about you?”

“Chennai, Adayar. But you are from HYDERABAD?! WHERE IN HYDERABAD?”

“A place called Malkajgiri.” There are no words to describe the look on his face. I decide I have had enough fun. So I tell him, “My husband is a Telugu from Hyderabad.”

“Ah!” He looks relieved, “So, where are you from? Thailand? Philippines?”

“No. From Darjeeling in West Bengal, and no, I am not a Bengali.”

He looks at me suspiciously, “Can you speak Hindi?”

“No, I don’t speak in Hindi, because where I come from we all speak in the local language, which is Nepali.”

His eyes light up, “Oh! So you are from Nepal then?!” Here we go again, with the existential question “Who am I?!”

***

This time around, I am at a jungle resort in the Royal Chitwan National Park in Nepal, working as a Guest Relation Officer. There are many guests from all over the world, but a large number of them are from England. I brief them about the dos and don’ts in the jungle and on the safari. After the briefing is over one nice young lady asks me, “Are you from England?”

“No, I am from India?”

“INDIA. You mean to say you are an INDIAN?!” There’s that look again!

I let go this time. “No Ma’am. I only live in India. I am a Brown Baarvaarian from the high altitude Tibetan plateau of Mustang. When the Shangs attacked my tribe, my mother ran all the way to India. There I was born in a yak-herder’s shelter in the mountains. The cold snows of Maagh in January killed her, and a kind Indian man adopted me. He took me to live in Darjeeling where I have lived ever since. That’s the only home I have known.”

“Oooooooohhhh ...”
“Darjeeling! Isn’t it where the tea comes from, Janet?”

“Yes, it is indeed. Did you know it was the British who set up the tea plantations in Darjeeling, when they ruled India?”

“No Ma’am, I do not. I don’t know much about Indian history. I am a Baarvaarian you know.”

“But you were born and have lived in India all your life. And that means you are an Indian!”

Yipppppeeeeeeee! Some one said it at last. I am an Indian!

I can die a happy woman now.

***

I am an Indian, a Gorkha from Darjeeling. Darjeeling is a hill station in West Bengal and the local population essentially consists of Gorkhas with a sprinkling of Tibetans.

The local language is Nepali, but a brand which is a little different from that spoken in Nepal. The second popular language is English. This is due to the strong British influence from the days of the Raj and not because we want to “ape the West”. A few people do understand and speak Bengali, because Darjeeling is politically a part of West Bengal.

The local language however, is still Nepali as every Gorkhali tribe has its own language. There are the Khumbus, Limboos, Magars, Gurungs and Newars, to name but a few.

What is called the Nepali language (recognised by the Indian constitution in 1986) is actually called “Parbatae Bhasha” (meaning language of the hills) by the locals. It serves as a link language to a race that has more than 16 tribal languages.

We are of Tibeto-Mongoloid stock and hence we are short, stocky and flat-featured, and “Chinky”. People may want to dispute the finer points of language and race and origin but one thing stands firm. We are all Indians and proud of it. So give us a break here.

*** *** ***

© September 2006