Those lovable ones

Those Lovable Ones

            During the 1950s and 1960s, we had quite a few Indian officers in the Armed Forces who had taken part in World War II alongside  British soldiers. . They were a happy-go-lucky lot, always cheerful and with a good repertoire of jokes. They were a class by themselves. They could talk about Kohat and the Burma Front which we had only read about. To them we were bachaas and had to learn a lot. This included their Commanding officers  too, who always had a soft corner for them.

            Sqn.Ldr. Brown, ‘Pop’ as we called him, was one of them. My first encounter with him was when I reported for duty on my first posting. He was the Adjutant. Even as I stood outside his door, about to enter, I could hear him shouting at almost every one interspersed with guffaws of laughter. The entire room seemed to reverberate when he laughed. A big made man with a ferocious moustache and a loud voice he could put the devil’s fear into anyone. I was told later that he was a good boxer in his younger days.

            'Pop' was very popular on the Station, not only because he was always helpful but we believed that he had sufficient “influence” with the CO. The reason for this could be that he would crack jokes with the CO which we dared not do. To the ladies, it was always, “Ask Pop” or “ Let Pop handle this” or “ What does Pop say ? “. He was the only one who could get things done for their meetings and social functions.

            One of the stories going around was the way he handled a Corporal charged with sleeping on duty. The Corporal was marched in by the Sergeant who read the lengthy charge of his grave neglect of duty.  Sqn.Ldr. Brown sat in his chair wearing his peak cap, listening carefully, all the while staring daggers at the Corporal. When the Sergeant finished reading the charge, Sqn.Ldr. Brown got up from his chair, removed his peak cap and kept it on the table. He walked up to the Corporal, held him by the collar and shouted,” You  bl***y man, next time I catch you sleeping, I will break every tooth in your mouth”.  He came back to his chair, put on his peak cap and pronounced the sentence,” One extra guard duty”.

            One incident which I  personally witnessed  was the way he handled a lengthy letter written by a newly posted Squadron Commander making a number of suggestions to improve the Station. Most of them were impossible to achieve with the limited resources available. The Squadron Commander had the reputation of being rather arrogant who considered himself the cat’s whiskers. I could see Pop’s agitation while reading it. He took a red pencil, drew two  large circles on the page, folded the letter carefully, placed it in the envelope sealed it and gave it to the chaprassi saying, “ Bolna, Pop saab bahut salaam diya”. Who could touch the CO’s favourite officer ?

            Pop taught me how to play billiards. His favourite drink was Rum. “ It is a good thing to be a teetotaler, my friend”, he told me once. “ But when bombs are exploding around you, remember,  one peg of Roger-Uncle-Mike will save you from becoming a nervous wreck”.

            Alas, we will not be seeing the likes of them any more.

 Out-of-Sync

        I read somewhere that Sir Alfred Nobel, the man behind the Nobel
prize, was a very lonely man in his later years. He would be seen
walking alone, with no one to keep him company. While I cannot claim
to be anywhere near him in brilliance or accomplishment, I am also a
loner like him. I cannot help thinking so when I see people avoiding
me. Some even change route the moment they see me walking towards
them. Some introspection is called for to find out the cause.
            One reason could be, I am not a cricket fan. A very serious drawback
indeed. Not that I was always like this. My heroes were Vijay
Merchant, Hazare, Mankad and the likes of them who played the game for
the love of it. The match fixing scandal put an end to all that. When
friends ask me excitedly, “What’s the score?”, I answer “ Who is
playing ? Where?”.  Now that is not being in sync with the rest. But
surely, this cannot be the only reason?
             Then, I cannot stand anything loud, be it music or conversation. A
party is arranged to meet friends. With the loud background music, you
have to shout rather than converse. I walk across to the person
fiddling with the knobs of the sound system and tell him to reduce the
volume. He does it, but increases it again the moment I am out of
sight. I give up, but my intentions are applauded.
            I am convinced that smoking and alcohol are the biggest enemies to
health. The warning on the cigarette pack says so. Newspaper articles
tell you to avoid them. Now, is it not my duty to spread awareness of
this?  In parties, I tell this to my friends at the bar. I never miss
an opportunity to barge into a group of smokers and warn them about
lung cancer. I am glad that my advice is well taken. After all I mean
well. So this too cannot be the reason for people avoiding me? .

            We all know that there is no substitute for experience. As a senior
citizen I can look at all things from a mature perspective. After all
age and wisdom go hand in hand. If the discussion is about politics, I
draw similarities with our great uncorrupted  freedom fighters. If it
is about movies, I tell them about the golden age of the film industry
where the hero hardly touched the heroine and true love was expressed
through dialogue and songs. In sartorial matters, I draw their
attention to the graceful sari which is now replaced by all those
scanty dresses. I am really glad that everyone agrees with me.  Yet,
why do people avoid me? I sought the opinion of my niece who is known
for her outspokenness.
            “Uncle”, she said after thinking for some time, “you have become a
cranky old man and a perpetual bore. Who wants your company?”.

 Conspiracy in the air.

            I wonder if there is a conspiracy between airlines and airports abroad
to humiliate me. How else can I explain the embarrassing situations I
encounter whenever I travel in other countries? For example, landing
in Paris like any other passenger, I stand in the queue at the
immigration counter. When my turn comes, a lady examines my documents,
takes my thumb prints and asks me to step aside. The  ‘police de
l’aéroport‘  is summoned and I am led to an office where three
policemen watch as I press my thumbs on another machine. No image
appears on the screen. One of them forces my hand against the glass,
almost breaking my bones. Still no image. I am asked to wash my hands
and repeat the process. The screen remains blank. I tell them in my
halting French that the machine in their Consulate in Mumbai worked
very well. They were not too happy, but I am “released” at last to
proceed to the exit door. Was it my fault if their machine was bad?
            Soon after 9/11, I landed in Newark airport on a flight from San
Francisco en route to Paris. I had a good five hours to go. After a
long walk I arrived at Gate 28 where they were checking boarding
passes. When it came to my turn, they asked if I was bound for Paris.
When I said yes, they grabbed my suitcase, stamped my boarding pass
and pushed me onto the aerobridge. I thought I must have mixed up the
time zones, since everyone was already seated inside the aircraft. As
I walked along the aisle looking for my seat, the Captain announced
that I should report to the Flight Steward immediately. All heads
turned towards me. At the far end some even stood up to see  me. I was
back at Gate 28 with all my luggage. THEY had made a mistake. My
flight was actually five hours away!
            On my last visit to Paris however, it was a smooth passage. At least,
so I thought. On boarding the aircraft I found that my seat was right
in the middle of the aisle. Some passengers from India were on either
side. I tried to make conversation, but they did not seem too keen to
talk. Must be second generation Indians, I thought, who knew only
French. Suddenly, I saw TV cameramen with bright lights positioning
themselves in front of us.  Evidently a commercial video for the
airline, I guessed. I sat up straight, adjusted my tie and gave a wide
smile. My friends in Paris would be happy to see me on their TV sets.
A few days later, I did get a mail from one of them.
            “We were surprised to see you sitting in the midst of illegal
immigrants being deported to India. You were the only one smiling !”
            This was the most unkindest cut of all.

Unfulfilled Dream

An unfulfilled dream

          “ A horse ! A horse ! My kingdom for a horse !”  shouted King Richard  when all was lost on the battlefield. As a kid, I too shouted for a horse with no kingdom to offer. No one listened to me. Perhaps it was odd that I wanted a horse when kids of my age wanted a bike. How could anyone know that my dream was to ride a horse ? To me it was the most beautiful animal and so graceful in its movements. My parents perhaps feared that I may end up as a Tonga driver !

            “ Why don’t you go to the park and take a ride on the horse there? “  suggested a friend of mine. He could never understand that I wanted to ride a horse, a stallion, galloping across the fields and jumping obstacles like the way cowboys do.

            Years passed and all I could do was to ride my bicycle to college, but no horse. When I finished college, I was told that if I joined the Services like the Army or the Air Force, I would be taught horse riding. That did it. I joined the Air Force.

            We were given a close haircut and a lengthy briefing by the Sergeant on the do’s and don’ts of the life in the Air Force. “Any questions ? “ he asked at the end. I meekly stood up and asked him if horse riding was part of the syllabus.

            “ Well “, said the Sergeant twirling his moustache,” we had a horse riding Club but we had to close it last year. Instructions from Headquarters.” Lady luck was not on my side.

            My first posting was to Poona, the biggest Station in the Air Force. After the initial briefing by the Adjutant, I was shown into the office of the Commandang Officer. I listened to his expectations of me and waited for the famous question,” Any questions? “. I was much bolder now and asked him if I could join the horse riding club. He thought I was an expert horse rider seeing my enthusiasm. “ You are in luck, my boy”, smiled the boss.” Meet Flight Lieutenant Patankar. He is in charge. “ I was happy to know that he lived in the same Mess where I stayed. His room was locked.

” Saab, hospithaal mein hein” said his bearer.

            Patankar was sleeping in the ward with his leg in plaster. It was all his mistake, he said sadly. He had not noticed the ditch but the horse did. It stopped all of a sudden and let Patankar do the leap. Once discharged he would be only too happy to take me in as a member since there was no one else. I learnt  later that the horse was mad and would soon be disposed off. I found myself riding a scooter, but still no horse.

            When I sat on the mule, on a trip to Kashmir, I was overcome with self pity. Perhaps I was destined only to ride a mule led by the owner. It was a long ride which did not seem to end. I asked him if he was showing me a spectacular view of the snow clad peaks. It was a surprise which he had kept for the last minute. It was the place where the film “ Bobby” was shot. I did not have the heart to be angry with him.

            Much water has flown under the bridge since then and many summers have passed. I have retired but the never-say-die attitude is still holding on. I met a senior retired Cavalry officer the other day at the bar, who must have lived a better part of  his life riding horses. When I expressed my life long desire to him, he looked at me from top to bottom, took a large sip of beer and said,” My friend, I’ll tell you something. Horses are very temperamental creatures. They can throw the best riders off their backs. A fall can be fatal you know”, and took another sip.

” If I were you” he said wiping his lips, “ I would take up bird watching.”

           

            

My 'Middles'

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Horror-Scope

Mani and I have been friends since college. Both of us took up jobs in the same town. Over the years our two families also became close. The reason for our intimacy was that both of us thought alike. We had the same views on almost everything and laughed at the same jokes. But when it came to astrology we were poles apart. I did not believe in astrology while Mani swore by it. I tried my best to convince him that it was a vague science since it did not stand accurate tests. His argument was that it had stood the test of time and hence could not be discarded. So we agreed to disagree on this one subject. I could not help pointing out serious errors in predictions. Mani just turned a deaf ear to them.

Sastry, the self taught astrologer, was his ‘guru’. Mani treated him with respect. No function in Mani’s house would ever take place unless it was accepted by Sastry.

When Mani’s first son became an eligible bachelor, Sastry assumed the role of a marriage broker. It was a common scene in Mani’s house to see Sastry sitting on the sofa with all the panchagams spread on the coffee table. Mani would sit on the opposite sofa gazing at the horoscopes of eligible brides and listening to Sastry attentively. “Look at this” Sastry would explain, “In the boy’s horoscope the Sun, the ascendant is in the 12^th house along with cunning Rahu and evil Mercury. Mars, lord of the 9^th house is in his enemy’s house. The 10^th lord Venus is the ascendant and is weak. Rahu quietly masks the Sun and shuts down the influence”. Mani did not understand anything but seemed to enjoy all the excitement akin to a thriller movie. Sastry picked up one horoscope and pronounced the girl as his future daughter-in-law. The horoscopes could not have matched better. What the boy lacked in qualities the girl had it all ! A visit to the girl’s town was planned and I too formed part of the boy’s ‘party’. When we got down from the train the girl’s people were all there on the platform with garlands. We were taken to the girl’s house by cars. After landing in the house Sastry felt something was not right. He whispered in Mani’s ears that we had arrived at the wrong house! Actually Sastry had not seen anyone from the girl’s side but had seen only the horoscope. We were rushed back to the station to meet the correct party. Of course we had to return all the garlands since they were required for the right people who would be arriving by the next train. That much for Sastry’s efficiency. But this did not in any way dilute Mani’s faith in Sastry.

It was now the turn of his second son to get married. ( Mani, incidentally had three sons.) One day, Sastry burst into the house, all excited. “ Mani Saar”, he exclaimed, ” I have found a perfect match for your son. Look at this. The girl’s star is Bharani. You know what it means ? A Bharani girl will rule the Dharani ( the world ). 34 gunas match out of 36. It is such a rare thing to happen. You are indeed lucky”. Mani, as usual sat in front of Sastry to listen to the dramatic movements of the planets. Mani’s wife too joined in this time. She had a sprinkling knowledge of astrology and sometimes would ask sensible questions to Sastry. She picked up both the horoscopes and looked at them one at a time. After some time she showed the horoscopes to Sastry and almost shouted,

” What is this Sastry ? You have compared the horoscopes of my two sons ! “.

For the first time, Mani did not smile.

‘Holmes’ in the Park

After reading quite a few Sherlock Homes stories I feel I too have developed an uncanny knack of judging people. A few examples to illustrate my expertise.

Every morning I go for a walk in the park close to our house. Those who come to the park for their constitutional are equally regular. This helps me to check on the accuracy of my deductions.

The first to arrive are four middle aged men in the latest jogging suits and branded walking shoes. The subject of their talk is always about land prices, rental values, market rates of buildings, resale value etc Since speaking softly is not one of their virtues, their voices can be heard all over the park. I have placed them as building contractors who are doing very well.

The young lady with a pedometer fixed to her leg walking briskly has to complete her ten thousand steps for the day. Her instructions on her mobile are clear and to the point. She has to be a Project Manager in an MNC where dead lines are sacrosanct.

The elderly gentleman in the T-Shirt with the letters “University of Illinois” has just returned from the US. His son has got the H1B visa and does not need the university clothes anymore. He probably wanted to throw them away but this person, belonging to the previous generation, prevents him from doing so. He has brought them for use in India.

The two ladies wearing shorts, I am sure, visit the US frequently to see their grand children and playing the role of governesses also. Their conversation usually will be “You mean you were in San Jose last month? God, I too was there in Cupertino. My grandson is so intelligent I tell you ……….” and so on.

The ladies sitting on the park bench are definitely mothers of NRIs. They have been left behind to look after themselves. Their contact with their children are phone calls (Skype) every week end. The subject of their conversation is always day-to-day problems. “Our maid comes late every day and walks in holding her mobile to her ears. She does not even bend to sweep the floor. Can’t say anything to them nowadays. “

The one who is neatly dressed with a beret and walking proudly has to be a retired Colonel or a Major General.

The three elderly gentlemen walking at a leisurely pace must be retired bureaucrats. The subject is invariably politics. This will be followed by their own experiences while in service and how they had solved the problems in a brilliant fashion.

The ones whom I desist are those who walk with grumpy faces as if shouldering all the responsibilities of the world. They are incapable of appreciating the greenery all around or listening to the chirping of birds. A detestable lot indeed.

I returned home from my walk this morning and saw my wife chatting with the lady next door at the gate. On seeing me the lady left rather hurriedly. I asked my wife if the lady had some urgent work. My wife said,” She only wanted to know why you always walk in the park with such a grumpy face as if……….”

The Wedding Reception

The wedding reception was like any other one. The guests lined up to wish the couple, handed over small gifts, got photographed with the newly-weds and moved over for dinner. When my turn came to wish them, the bride’s father introduced me and told me, “This is the girl”. We exchanged smiles and meaningful glances. No one would have noticed me blessing her twice and holding her hand a little longer. What was so special about her ? It was an incident that happened when she was a kid.

About twenty years back, guests who had arrived at my friend’s house were all set to leave. Two taxis, to take them to the railway station, stood in front of the house while the luggage was being loaded. This girl, who was less than two years of age, played on the sand mound, which some building contractor had dumped near the compound wall. The hosts and the guests were engaged in exchanging pleasantries, which carried on for quite sometime. The taxis finally left and everyone got back into the house. Someone asked as to where the child was and one of them went out to pick up the little one from the sand mound. The baby was not there ! They searched inside the house, in the backyard, behind the furniture and all the places where a child could stray or hide. The child was nowhere to be seen.

They searched all along the road, in the neighbours’ houses and in the shops. No one had noticed a small child going about unescorted. The mother who, till now, was sure that the kid would have strayed into a neighbour’s house began to lose nerve. Telephone calls were made to friends and relatives who rushed to the house for the search. Youngsters arrived on their motorbikes and worked out a strategy for the search. It was planned that those who had bikes would cover all the roads in the area and those who walked would enquire from whomsoever they met on the road. A complaint was lodged immediately at the police station. All India Radio was requested to make an announcement on the radio.

It was evening, a good eight hours since the kid was missing and still there was no trace. The mother became hysterical. All the words of courage the womenfolk gave to the mother had little or no effect. A doctor was called in to give her a sedative.

Late in the night every one assembled in the house after a futile search. They decided to look for the baby again the next morning. No one had taken food. A gloom had descended on the household.

On the way back to his house on the dimly lit road, one youngster noticed a beggar woman carrying a blanket bundle awkwardly on her shoulders. In the darkness he could see two small legs protruding from the bundle. Under normal circumstances he would have ignored her but by now it had become a habit with him to look for anything resembling a baby. He went close to her and before he could ask her anything she started running. He chased her and grabbed the bundle from her only to find that it was this little girl ! Later it was found that the woman was mentally unbalanced and was habituated in grabbing children from mothers.

After a sumptuous dinner at the wedding house I collected the cocoanut packet and stepped out. Just before getting into the car I looked back once again to catch a glimpse of the couple on the stage who were all smiles. I prayed for their happiness and drove back home.

Coincidence or a supernatural happening ?

I was a pilot in the Indian Air Force. During training we flew basic aircraft and one of them was the American Texan. I flew around 75 hours on this aircraft before qualifying on fighters.

I was posted to Bangalore after a couple of years on a ground duty job. At the Air Force Base there was a Harvard 2B aircraft which pilots flew to keep up their hours. Harvard is very similar to the Texan and I had no problem flying it since the cockpit configuration was almost identical. The flying characteristics too were the same.After a dual check by one of the more experienced pilots I was cleared to go solo.

The next day I was changing into flying overalls in the crew room. Two pilots who had just finished flying the Harvard were changing back to their normal clothes and were discussing the Harvard aircraft.One of them said, "Man,this Harvard is like the Lambretta scooter. It has a reserve setting in the fuel tank." The other one replied." So you have tilt the aircraft to start it, eh ? Ha, Ha ! ". ( Lambretta scooter had this peculiarity where you had to tilt the scooter to one side to let the fuel flow into the carburettor.) I quietly laughed at the joke and continued with my dressing up.

I had to fly around 45 minutes and planned a triangular cross country sortie. After completing the sortie I noticed that I had another ten minutes to go. I asked the flying control if I can be permitted to do aerobatics over the airfield. I was given the go ahead. I did loops, rolls, barrel rolls and what have you for a good ten minutes. As a grand finale I asked the flying control if I could do a low run over the airfield. I was given permission to do so. I flew quite a distance from the airfield and came down and down to just touching the tree tops. It was thrilling. As I pulled up from the run the engine cut ! I was hardly 200 feet above the ground and was totally taken by surprise. The propeller was winding down fast.I could not possibly turn back since I was too low. The area below was built up with no open space. I had no choice except to put her down straight ahead and hope for the best ! In a fraction of a second I remembered what the two pilots were joking in the crew room. I looked down at the fuel control cock and saw the marking" Reserve". I immediately selected reserve. The propeller which was winding down fast suddenly whirred back to life. I climbed to circuit height and landed safely.

Ever since this incident I have thinking and asking myself the following questions.

1. What if I had chosen some other day to fly this aircraft ?

2. What if I had not heard the two pilots discussing in the crew room ?

3. What if I had arrived in the crew room late when both the pilots had left ?

I am convinced that coincidences are the acts of god or some super natural force in action. I was destined to live. To quote Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam," The moving writes, And having writ moves on....."

A Lethal Weapon

I never knew I had a WMD, a weapon of man destruction !

We were just out of college and were aspirants for joining the Indian Air force. At the Selection Centre a handsome young man walked in to give us the introductory talk. He spoke to us about the life in the Air Force and what the selection process would be like. I was impressed. In fact more impressed by the green tweed coat he was wearing. It was dark green in colour with light black squares which I had seen in the ads of foreign magazines. Some day, I made up my mind, to possess one just like that.

A few years later I was deputed for a short course to the UK. While walking along Oxford Street, a coat displayed in the window caught my eye. It was exactly the tweed coat which I wanted, dark green with light black checks. The Christmas after sales offer had reduced the price by nearly fifty percent. Well, soon I was the proud possessor of the beautiful green tweed coat.

Years later I noticed what looked like a small tear on the lining inside. To my horror most of the silk has been moth eaten. My wife suggested that we give the coat to tailor Pasha who stitched school uniforms for my sons. Pasha examined the coat carefully and told me that instead of pure silk he would use artificial silk. He warned me that it would take time. Repairing a coat was more work than stitching a new one, he said.

A month later I went to Pasha’s shop. I saw his son busy with the sewing machine. He recognised me and without saying a word pointed to a photograph of Pasha on the wall with a garland decorating it. “It happened so suddenly Sir” he said, handing over the coat. It had been opened with all the silk lining removed. I felt sorry for Pasha since he was one of those old time tailors for whom working on a tweet coat was a matter of pride.

My sister suggested that I give it to Rafiq our childhood friend who had done well and established himself as a leading tailor for wedding suits. A little hesitantly I asked him if he would care to put a new lining to my coat. He looked at it for a long time and told me that it was a real nice coat which you could not get in India. Of course he would repair it for me.

I knew he would take time but then I was not in a hurry. Nearly three months later I dropped in to check on the progress. The assistants were very apologetic for the delay. Rafiq had been admitted to the hospital for a minor ailment. He would certainly repair the coat the moment he was discharged. Alas, that was not to be. Rafiq never came back.

This time I decided not to take a chance. I put it in a paper bag and dumped it along with the garbage. As they say once is a chance, twice is coincidence but the third time it is definitely enemy action !