STRANGE ENCOUNTERS IN 'KACHORA' COUNTRY

    Major General Sir David Ochterlony, British East India Company’s Resident in Delhi, was conferred the title “Nasir-ud-daula” by the Mughal emperor Shah Alam II for his role in the defence of Delhi against the Holkars. After the conclusion of the Pindari War in 1818, Looney Akhter (as Ochterlony was nicknamed) established a military garrison near Ajmer. It came to be known as Nasirabad, a name derived from the title conferred on him.

    Nasirabad continues to be an important military station today. To commemorate its bicentenary, the Army Postal Service released a special cover in 2018.

    I went on posting to Nasirabad in the mid-1990s and took an instant liking to this quaint, well-laid-out town. Though winters were cold and summers dry and hot, Nasirabad had a healthy climate. The medium-sized market abutting the military area catered for our requirements. The most famous address in that market was that of Chavannilal Halwai. There will be a fairly long queue every morning in front of the shop just before opening time. The few lucky ones who had lined up early would be able to buy the mouth-watering kachora.

    In some of the officers’ messes in Nasirabad, kachora was a popular Sunday breakfast item. “It is the elder brother of kachori, is more spicy, has a liberal dose of asafoetida, is flat like a roti and is sold not in numbers but by weight,” our mess steward explained to me.

    The cantonment had wide, well-maintained roads with no gradients. As a long-distance runner, I enjoyed running on these roads. In my first week there, I noticed a dhoti-clad man in his early sixties walking briskly. He wished me and the few others on the road with a cheerful “Ram Ram ji”.

    Over the next few weeks, I observed that he would come from the market area into the military area for his morning walk and would unfailingly greet everyone on the road.

    One evening, I went to a hardware shop in the market and noted that he was its owner. When I wished him as cheerfully as he would every morning, he showed no signs of having recognised me. Here, he had a grumpy exterior. When I asked him if he was the same gentleman who was seen walking in the military area in the mornings wishing everyone “Ram Ram ji”, he merely grunted. As if on cue, his assistant, an equally old man said, “Yes, he is the same old miser. Our foul-mouthed Sethji uses cuss words on me all day long and the next morning he atones for his sins with his ‘Ram Ram ji’.”

    Sethji let out a barrage of abuses asking him to mind his own business, energising the assistant, who looked at me and smiled meaningfully to convey, “Didn’t I tell you?”

(This was published in “The Hindu” on 25 April 2021)

 https://www.thehindu.com/opinion/open-page/strange-encounters-in-kachora-country/article34400691.ece

SOLDIER TO SOLDIER

    Almost four decades ago, I was selected to join the Army, subject to graduating in engineering. I got the result of my final year examination just three days to the deadline for its submission at the Army Headquarters in New Delhi. With neither courier services nor easy air connectivity available, the only option was to take a train and hand over the document in person.

    With reservation unavailable at short notice, I travelled in general compartments from Mangalore to Madras Central and thence to Delhi. From Madras, I took the Grand Trunk Express, occupying a window seat for the 2,200-km, 40-hour journey. Soon, I made friends with most of my co-passengers. At the slightest opportunity, I would proudly announce that I was an engineering graduate, on my way to join the Army. In fact, even when there was no such opportunity, I created one to tell this to anyone within earshot. That is how the tall, well-built gentleman with a weather-beaten countenance who boarded the train at Nagpur the next afternoon learnt about me.

    Generally quiet, he kept to himself. When the train pulled into the Bhopal station and I got down to have a bite, he followed me to the refreshment stall. I politely offered him a samosa. He gladly accepted it and insisted on sharing the bill. I said it was not acceptable, but he was insistent. I told him that it was just a samosa, but he would have none of it.

“Soldier to soldier, let us follow the tradition of going Dutch,” he said.

    Though I had a momentary joy of being accepted as a soldier, I was quick to ask, “You are a soldier?” After a long pause during which I could make out that he was undergoing some mixed emotions, he said, “Yes, I was a soldier…” What followed, stunned me, “… in the Pakistan Army.” By this time, we were back on the train.

Humane gestures

    Speaking almost in whispers, the man — let us call him Imtiaz — told me that he had been a Havaldar posted in Sylhet during the 1971 India-Pakistan war. He spoke of how they were let down by their leaders. It was an incredible experience for me, to listen to an “enemy” talking in such a composed, matter-of-fact manner. Despite the bitterness of defeat, he had immense praise for the Indian armed forces. “Your Army was a deserving winner. Though we lost the war and surrendered to you, we were accorded the respect that every soldier deserves,” he said and narrated a few instances of the humane gestures of the Indian troops at the prisoner-of-war camp that he was in.

    Returning to Pakistan after the war, he left the Army and opened a grocery shop in his village near Multan. In Nagpur, he was visiting his ailing aunt.

    Brought up in a civilian environment, on an almost staple diet of “all Pakistanis are wicked”, this had been a sobering experience for me and I was unable to decide what my reactions should be. I was unusually silent during the remaining few hours of the journey.

    Next morning, when I woke up with just an hour or so to Delhi, Imtiaz greeted me with a cheerful “Good Morning, janab”.

    When we got down from the train at New Delhi, he shook my hands and conveyed his best wishes to me for a great career as an Army officer. Then, in a dramatic gesture, he put his luggage down, took a few steps back and suddenly clicking his heels, came to attention and offered me a smart salute, “Soldier to soldier, let us continue the tradition of respecting each other.”

    My eyes were moist when I instinctively put my luggage down took a few steps forward and hugged him and wished him well.

(This was published in “The Hindu” on 27 December 2020)

https://www.thehindu.com/opinion/open-page/soldier-to-soldier/article33422878.ece

ONE VIEWPOINT, TWO POINTS OF VIEW

    It was a hot day. The sun would be setting shortly. Tourists were making a beeline for the “Sunset Viewpoint” at Agumbe, in the Western Ghats. On a clear evening, a breathtaking view of the sun setting into the Arabian Sea awaits you there. Agumbe is a nature lover’s delight. It is one of the rainiest places in India. It is the habitat of the king cobra. Leopards, macaques, langurs, wild dogs, jackals, porcupines, deer and flying squirrels inhabit the Someshwara Wildlife Sanctuary down below. The great Indian hornbill and the Malabar whistling thrush add colour to the skies here. Seethanadi, flowing nearby is home to mahseer and otters.

    It is the view of the setting sun which attracts tourists. The viewpoint is full of tourists now. A group of youngsters is boisterously singing a popular number, the end of which brings raucous laughter. Now it is selfie time. The group becomes as compact as possible. Someone’s missing? A quick look all around and they spot the missing person. “Chachoo”, yells one, “Where are you? Come quickly, before the sun sets.” Chachoo, clearly not interested, looks away disdainfully. The youngsters assume an indifferent attitude and get busy clicking selfies. 

    An observant bystander walks up to the clearly disgusted gentleman, “What happened?” It is like touching a raw nerve, “I brought my nephews and nieces settled abroad here hoping they would see nature in its pristine glory and learn to love it. All they care for is selfies. Look at that sun, how beautiful it looks! Even those two macaques seem to be admiring it. Look at those beautiful birds chirping there, before nesting for the night. Have we come all the way from Udupi for selfies here? When will they learn about nature and its charms?” 

    One niece comes over and counters, “We have gathered from different places after many years. We may not get a chance to meet like this again. The Agumbe sunset and nature here will remain for eternity. We can see it later. But Chachoo…” The sun has exited the grand stage. Some birds are still chirping. The macaques are foraging the discarded plastic. 

    Finally, the Sunset Viewpoint is enveloped in darkness and silence. Still, you can hear the buzzing of insects and the rustling of the tree leaves in the cool, gentle breeze which is now blowing. But the diametrically opposite views of the two generations represented by an uncle and his young niece will haunt the observant bystander for a long time.

(This was published in “Deccan Herald” on 23 December 2020)

https://www.deccanherald.com/opinion/right-in-the-middle/one-viewpoint-two-points-of-view-930449.html